I met you when I was nineteen, and I thought this was the moment I was waiting for all my life. Only, you had not been waiting for me, and you were entirely not up for grabs. I remember I had this feeling when I took that job I would be meeting the man I’d spend the rest of my life with. That’s a very big feeling to have when you’re that young. But I felt it so strongly. And I continued to think of you as the one who got away for many years after.
We stayed in touch, due to my sleuthing. You have no social media presence that I can detect these days, but I found your college e-mail address in the directory, and the rest is history. Every few years, you resurface, just to torture me and crack open doors that may be better left shut, locked, and the key thrown away.
It’s jarring every time you show up again. You stay in contact for a few days, maybe a week here and there, and then you’re gone. We never did meet up for lunch the way you wanted to.
I wonder what you’re doing now for work, whether if when I look up and see a plane flying overhead, if you’re the one guiding it safely to its destination. The last time I flew, I almost expected to see you hanging out in the doorway of the cockpit. I probably would have wobbled at the knees if it had been you.
I wonder about the state of your heart, where you are living, who you are living with. If you’re happy now or still just pretending. Oh, how similar we have been all these years, never really knowing.
What would it be like to see you again? Would you be disappointed because I’m not the same girl you once knew? Or would you be understanding of all that girl had gone through, all the scars that pierced her heart while she searched and searched for something that might never be found.
I sent you a song tonight, from the stage version of your favorite novel. No answer. The words of that song still ring so true.