"A gun? Really?" She deadpans, looking at you with mocking disappointment. "That's romantic."

She's one to talk. The last time, she used a hunting rifle. A hunting rifle! What are you, a deer?! And to think you took weeks and weeks planning the perfect death for her. Peaceful, in her sleep, zero pain. Her family even had an open casket at her funeral, lamenting about how she looked so utterly beautiful, even in death.

You, on the other hand, had to leave the world in a haze of ash and dust. Bullet holes don't make for the most attractive corpse. You obviously weren't conscious for the cremation, but you don't doubt that it was unpleasant. Well, not this time, Lexa.

"Thanks," you reply nonchalantly, noticing the sharp blade in her hands. Looks like somebody's been reading Romeo and Juliet. "I hope you've been practicing."

You've been at the wrong end of a horribly blunt knife once, before you met her. The memory makes you shudder. Bleeding out on a nearly empty highway in the dead of night might sound like a cool way to die, but it's uncomfortable to say the least. That whole 'life flashing before your eyes' thing? Doesn't happen if you're in excruciating pain.

"I have. So how do you want to do this?" She asks, calmly stepping towards you until you're only an inch apart.

You take a moment to look at the world below. Quiet, undisturbed, peaceful. It's one of the better ones. You'll probably miss it.

"After you."

She nods, and you half expect her to just get it over with; instead, she reaches around your neck with her free hand and pulls you in for a kiss.

It's easy, familiar, as it should be. You've done this thousands of times, possibly millions. Yes, there are subtle differences each time. Sometimes her lips are chapped, sometimes yours are not as soft. Your hair could be shorter, longer, maybe even a different color (although you've grown quite fond of this particular sunny shade). She might taste like wine, toothpaste, fruity lip-gloss, or any number of things, really, but never unpleasant.

The one thing that stays constant among all the universes, all the worlds, and all the timelines, is how shivers run down your spine every time she kisses you. How your lips are borderline addicted to hers. How your bodies just fit together like that's what they were made to do.

And after all this time, you suspect that they were.

After a while, you pull back for oxygen, but you can't quite get any of it into your lungs. You grow dizzy, and it's only now that your brain catches up. You can sense the warm blood running down your neck.

You hate this part.

In the morning, police will see two bodies on the side of the road. They'll probably chalk it up to a lovers quarrel gone awry. There will be funerals and wakes and tears and mourning, but time will heal all wounds.

The world will go on like it always does.

Everything else may change, but the rules never do.

No matter who you are, or what you do, or where you live, you always meet. You always fall in love. It is a truth as undeniable as the sunrise each morning. It is as real as all the atoms that make up everything in the universe.

Alexandria. Princess Alexandria to be exact. 3rd in line for the throne...in Sweden. It's not that you're a lowly peasant in this world, far from it. You are a highly respected English writer, some have even praised you as a modern day genius, but hey, it's not like anyone's counting your many accolades. Aside from your millions of dedicated readers and adoring critics, of course. You are practically literary royalty.

Actual royalty though? In Sweden of all places?! Why couldn't she have been in line for the British throne? That would've made things so much easier, considering your flat is just a few kilometres from Buckingham palace. But no, she just had to be born to the King of freaking Sweden, didn't she.

You're not sure if she loves you or your English accent more, but either way, you fall in love.

Like always, it is easy and effortless with her.

The same cannot be said for her native language, which apparently you now have to learn because you're dating the princess of the country. You think it's ridiculous, but you don't object when her father brings it up, because that would seem rude. In any other situation, you'd write a sternly worded letter, but this time, you're not sure who you'd even send it to. God only knows what the postal service here is like.

Swedish is so hard. Really, mind-bogglingly hard.

"Everyone here speaks English, why do I have to learn it?" You whine one day, looking over the text in your book. She's sitting next to you, and her perfume is distracting to say the least. You are… what's that word people use nowadays? Thirsty. Yes, you are practically parched.

The letters make your head spin, and not in the good, delirious way that she makes you feel. You majored in linguistics at Oxford, but you still can't figure out why a language needs so many consonants.

"I speak five languages, surely you can manage one?"

"I mean we could spend the afternoon going over all this vocab." Your frown turns into a smirk, and you can tell she knows where you're going with this. "Or we could do something else that's much more fun."

You know you probably should be studying, you need all the help you can get, but…

"Don't you remember that time in your library…" you trail off, and judging by the way her pupils dilate, she definitely remembers.

"No. I don't." She doesn't look at you when she says it. You both know it's a blatant lie.

Oh, bad move, Lexa. Bad move. She's forgetting that you know her. You've spent lifetimes getting to know her.

"Maybe I should remind you then." You grab her collar and pull her towards you, but you don't kiss her. You're just close enough to be sharing the same oxygen, there's maybe a centimetre between your lips, at most.

It takes her all of two seconds to give in and close the gap. You're actually surprised at how quickly she does, but you're definitely not going to complain.

"Thirty minutes," she pants as you kiss down her neck. "Then study."

You fight a smirk when she moans your name. "Of course."

It ends up being a really, really long half hour.

Turns out, all of it was for nothing. You get assassinated. Assassinated! What a bunch of tossers!

Huge shame, too. Just when you started to like living it up in a palace. And you were so close to reaching level B2 in Swedish. You vow to make her pay for all the hours you spent learning the language. Soon.

There's no way around it, you're a guy. Your name is Clark (although your last name isn't Kent, much to your dismay). Of course. You still have blue eyes and blonde hair. Your voice is deeper, your shoulders squarer, your jaw is chiselled. You are a singer, pretty decent one too. That, combined with your good looks, gets you the fame and fortune everyone in LA so desperately desires.

You go on tours, record albums, flirt with Hollywood starlets. The usual pop star stuff.

You're not even sure if she likes your music, but you see her at a meet and greet anyway.

Your label strongly advises (i.e: forbids) you from dating fans, but you don't care. She will be there long after they're gone.

You carry out every single romantic gesture you can think of, and then some. Big or small, intimate or grand, alone or in public. Everything. She deserves it all. And here, you can give it to her.

You whisk her to exotic destinations across the world in your jet. You buy her enough flowers to last several lifetimes. You whisper the sweetest of sweet nothings into her ear.

It's actually got its perks, being a guy. You can do a lot of things you couldn't do as a female. In bed and otherwise. The one thing that doesn't change is the way your body reacts to her moaning your name.

You propose underground, in the deepest cave in the world. You spend your holidays on beaches in the Caribbean, anniversaries at the top of the world in the Swiss Alps, spontaneous vacations to see the aurora borealis in Northern Europe.

When all is said and done, you both decide to do something you wouldn't live to regret. Skydiving is the ultimate thrill, so skydiving without a parachute should be fun, right? Yeah, not that great. You'd give it maybe a 4/10. Descent was fun, but the landing sucked.

Would not recommend.

Something's different this time. Very different.

You develop a strange affinity for…cardboard boxes.

Your blonde hair is grossly untamed, and it grows all across your body.

You're a bit of an asshole, you'll admit, but only because nothing around you is quite good enough.

You're a cat. Fantastic.

Your owner (or whatever, you do what you want) takes home a puppy one day. It has thick black fur and an adoring look in its eyes when it sees you.

Oh God, why. Of all the species in all of the universe, why does she have to be…that thing?

You don't understand anything that comes out of her mouth, and you suspect she doesn't either.

Still, when she cuddles up to you at night to sleep, you let her. But only because it's her. If any other filthy mutts tried this, you'd gladly scratch their heads off.

You go back to being human, as does she. In this one, you're her personal assistant and she's the CEO and majority shareholder of a global conglomerate. The power she holds is an aphrodisiac like no other, and you get to see it up close, every single day.

You've never been a jealous person, per se, but whenever another human being gives her a glance that could even be remotely construed as flirtatious, anger flares up in your chest.

Whenever you have so much as five minutes alone with her, you slam her against the nearest hard surface and kiss her lips swollen. She is , utterly, and wholly yours, you both know it. In this life, however, you make sure to remind her of the fact at every available opportunity. You're pretty glad that she happens to be a billionaire with a personal stylist on call 24/7, because more often than not, you just end up ripping off her clothes with superhuman strength that comes from who knows where.

For her part, she doesn't seem to mind. She would let you steal the air from her lungs if you wanted to. You are the only person in the world who has this power over her, this control, and it drives you insane with want.

There is a soundproof room in her multi-million dollar home that only you and she knows exist. A…well, to put it delicately… a playroom, and not the kind with an Xbox gaming system in it.

Oh, if only people knew what you get up to in that room. It turns you on just thinking about it. Not just the things you've done, but the things you could do, the things you will do.

When you do meet your demise, it's perhaps the most interesting way to go yet. Erotic asphyxiation.

Highly recommended.

Once again, there's a distinct difference that you notice immediately.

No, you're not an animal this time, but you are trapped. This is not a world you're familiar with at all. Everything's blindingly white and sterile.

Your movements are strangely constrained; almost robotic in manner. You try to speak, but no words come out.

You hear sounds coming from somewhere distant, but there's no speaker of any kind that you can see, and you can't quite make out what's being said. Something about a sign?

You walk around in this universe, and there's nothing you can really see, but your feet keeps moving you forward.

All of a sudden, she appears, and you've never been so happy. Ever.

You run towards her as fast as you can, and you kiss her with everything you have.

You want to tell her you love her when you part, and you can tell she wants to say the same thing, but still, nothing. Doesn't matter. You've moved past communicating verbally forever ago.

You move to kiss her again. That's when the sky comes crashing down from above.

"Mr Blake, would you like to share with us what you're working so hard on in that sketchbook of yours?"

"No, ma'am. It's nothing."

"Good. Could you please repeat everything I've just said about the three main functions of trigonometry, please? Start with sine."

The next time you meet, you're a chemist, and no, you don't cook meth in your spare time. She is a highly respected classical pianist.

You're sure there's a comparison somewhere, between your chosen careers. How chemistry is not that different from music. How every chemical has to be mixed just right in order for something to work, just like all the notes in a ballad or symphony has its particular place to create the magic. Then again, you are not a poet, and she creates art with melodies instead of words. So instead of big, bold declarations of love, you settle for doing things that you actually know how to do.

She plays Fur Elise beautifully.

You make her ice cream with liquid nitrogen.

She writes you a song.

You create snow in the middle of July with sodium polyacrylate and water.

She somehow manages to get the entire New York Philharmonic to serenade you with Pachelbel's Canon at 3am on your birthday.

You…don't know how to top that one. You settle for filling up your entire house with her favorite flowers instead.

When all is said and done, and you have a glass of liquid cyanide in your hands, you wonder what the next lifetime will bring. Does it even matter? You know it'll be with her, the rest is just noise.

"May we meet again?" She raises her own glass in a toast.

"We always do."

You are American. She's French. The problem? You don't speak French and she doesn't speak anglais.

You find yourselves lost in translation more times than you can count. Of course, by now you have developed your own language of sorts. You communicate through kisses and longing looks. Your fingers still fit perfectly within the spaces of hers. The way she says your name. The way she moans your name. God, you want to bottle up the sound and keep it with you forever.

There are times when you love it, the extra hurdle. The French language is nothing if not impeccably pretty. You begin to see why they call it the language of love. You try to keep your head screwed on properly when she speaks English, but that accent of hers is just criminally sexy.

Then there are times when you despise it. You want to bang your head against the wall in frustration. You just want to grab a gun or overdose on some pills to get on to the next life, one where you can actually articulate your thoughts to the person you love like a normal human being.

"Je suis désolé. Je t'aime."

She hugs you, and you immediately melt into her arms. It's become muscle memory at this point.

"We do not have to…"

The vulnerability in her voice almost breaks you.

"No, I want to."

You grab her hand and place it against your chest. Your heart feels like it's going to burst out of your rib-cage with every beat. That needs no translation.

"Tu comprends ça ?"

Your speaking skills need work, but she nods in understanding anyway.

It's in moments like these when you know for sure, without even a modicum of doubt in your mind, she is your soulmate. In every single universe. Hell, next time, you dare whichever deity's listening to make one of you a Martian or something. You'll have an intergalactic relationship, whatever, you don't care. It'll be hot, a new meaning to the phrase 'first contact'.

But for now, you'll settle for conquering the French language.

This time, instead of ending it early, you let life run its full course.