One day, I saw you. It really was just the back of your head. A glimpse in the crowd, so short and fleeting. I knew, with certainty, that it was you. After all, we spent a hundred nights together, my arms around you, and all I could see was your hair, and your nape, something so secret and tender that should be hidden.
I wanted to call out to you, my heart beating so fast I thought I would throw up. But you were already lost. In hindsight, I think it was for the best. I wouldn’t have known what to say. I wouldn’t have been able to look at you and ask the weird, stunted questions people who have grown apart ask each other. “How are you?” “What have you been up to?” It just puts a certain finality to things. It makes everything real. We are no longer part of each other’s worlds.
I stood there, for a minute, for a lifetime, who knows when these things happen. All I know is that when I looked up, you still weren’t there, not like in movies, you know. And I badly wanted to cry. But I was in public, and I just wasn’t made like that. So, I turned around and walked away. And the crowd swallowed the empty spaces where we both were, as if nothing ever happened. As if we’ve never been.