Recoil

And I can’t believe it. I can’t believe that I am seeing her now, in a coffee shop four streets away from where we first met.

“How’s everything going here? Did you miss me?” She asks with a look I cannot quite read.

Did I miss her? Did I miss her? I make a one-syllable laugh upon hearing that question. It’s funny how at 21, she still has the guts to ask such things. Sure, she’s always been on the top of everyone else’s list; she’s been living in a world where people go throwing themselves at her, where it is never “I miss you” and always everyone missing her. She’s golden— and the only thing that makes her value a little lesser is that she knows it. Her iridescence lights up everything and everyone around her, and everyone has always noticed that. What a self-centered bitch, I think.

But looking at her now, there’s something really different that I can’t fully distinguish: maybe her weary eyes, maybe her messy hair, maybe the way she says her words, as if really looking for someone who truly missed her. Did she like it there? Is she happy? Is everything going the way she planned them to be?

And the questions keep going, digging up to the deepest trenches of my emotional vulnerability: did she miss me? Did she realize my worth? Did I ever matter to her? Is she coming back to me?

I start to doubt myself. Have I been waiting all along? The thought makes me nervous, as I am realizing that I might be living a lie for years. And I laugh at all the people waiting. I pity them, and it feels good. But now I pity myself too. No, she’s never going back. I know that. From that day on, I’ve set her free, and I never had a single attempt to make her feel that I am worth keeping. I think it’s a good thing: the way I always accept defeat and how I treat goodbyes as absolute ends. I don’t wait. I can’t wait. And I make up my mind that when I decide to leave people, I’ll make sure that I am not going back.

Instead I say, “Everyday. I miss you everyday.” The coffee arrives and the lady calls our name.