When the now Mrs. Somebody Else reenters your consciousness

There's no way she's here, right now, where you are, right now. There's no way that you two are walking the same ground, breathing the same air, hearing the same sounds, sharing the same time.

But you try to know anyway. Could this be her? That profile looks familiar. The fall of her hair, the curve of her waist, the size of her arms. It looks familiar. Or, it's just you imposing familiar images on someone who just happens to be there. Still, you want answers. Or, you're interested in answers, but this isn't a life-or-death question, a question that'll get you rich or something.

Could this be her?


When the now Mrs. Somebody Else reenters your consciousness, you're left with no choice. You have to stay where you are and think back to those days when she had a name you know, a name you know very well.

You try to imagine the sound of her voice, the sound of her seeing you walk into the room, offering you a sprightly "good morning!" and you nodding back, smiling.

You recall the one time you shared a table, awkwardly, at the canteen. "How are you?" she asks you, and you say you're fine, and you can't remember the rest, but you remember looking down your feet, shuffling them nervously, and seeing that she wears a tattered pair of orange Chucks.

And you remember her dancing, sort of, in her seat, when a song plays on the radio. "I like this song," she says, and you watch excitedly, resisting the urge to take a video of the whole thing because, well, who'll watch it apart from you?

When the now Mrs. Somebody Else reenters your consciousness, you're left with no choice. You should not feel any tinge of regret, or any tinge of hope, for that matter. No hint of happiness or anger. Just remember, and then do what you were doing. You have always lived the same world, no matter the time zone or the language gap. There's no need to make anyone more special than anyone else.

And your responses...

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