Following the Familiarity

The way she looked, spoke, acted was all too familiar. It was as if looking into the past, seeing what could’ve been, but never will be. I followed her around for a little while; not in a peculiar way, but one driven by longing. Keeping my distance, I watched as the short girl with dark, long hair traveled with her clique. I didn’t know if I should stay, but I did anyway. She hadn’t seemed to notice me yet.

As I followed the woman, feeling that sense of familiarity and nostalgia wash over me, her crowd slowly dissipated. With each open hole in her group, I could see her, slowly, inch by inch. My heart ached with sadness, knowing that it had been over for us for a long while. But I needed to make sure she was okay. So, like any person with sense, I continued to follow her.

I watched as the woman walked into a coffee shop. Following her inside, I sat at a small table a good distance away. She ordered a caramel macchiato, light ice. I knew the order all too well. She was almost alone now, sitting with two of her friends whom I did not recognize. She must have moved on completely. Gathered a new group, met new people. She probably had a new partner already and forgot all about me. I clenched my fists, angry. Not at her. At myself. For whom I have become.

The more I was able to look at her, the more I realized how unique she looked. She looked different. Younger. She had a slight curl to her usual pin-straight hair. It was strange. All these years of knowing her, she had never told me she straightened it all along. I continued to study her, figuring that maybe she had chosen a different style, a change to help her move on. Yet here I was, sitting alone, without even a drink, watching her like some creep. The feeling began to settle in, the guilt, the unease, yet nobody seemed to notice me. It was as if I was never there to begin with. This lack of acknowledgement drove me to stay, to keep watching her as she lived her life without me. The man whom she said she would love forever.

About an hour and a half pass by until she eventually leaves the coffee shop. Of course, with little hesitation, I lingered behind. I watched as she walked through her city. She had always loved to drive. I, on the other hand, preferred to walk. It was strange, seeing her walk through the buildings, weaving through alleys. She had a horrible sense of direction. But, after all these years, maybe it had improved. I continued to follow behind as the sun began to set. She was unbothered, still unaware of the man shadowing her. Nobody batted an eye. Everyone seemed preoccupied with their own lives. So, I continued to follow her home. Just to make sure she would be safe.

It had to be her. I was sure of it, now. I looked up at the building as she slipped inside. It was all too familiar. I knew this place better than anybody, better than even she had. I felt tears of guilt and longing fill my eyes, yet nothing dripped down. She had stayed after all these years. Of course, without even a knock, I slipped inside a few brief moments after she had. The first thing I had noticed was pictures all along the walls, replacing the ones we had decorated with all those years ago. I walked slowly, my feet making absolutely zero noise on the plush carpet beneath my feet. I didn’t look at the images too hard, afraid of what I may or may not see. Instead, I tried to follow voices without being caught.

Two women were inside the house somewhere. I could not pinpoint their exact location. Everything in the house was rearranged and my memory didn’t serve me properly. Looking around some more, trying to grasp a hold of where I was, I noticed a jacket displayed on the wall. Next to the jacket was a line of photos, all framed, from 2008. That year was important. I struggled to remember why. I approached the framed photos, my cold hands running along the frames.

It was December of 2007. I was getting ready to be shipped off again after seeing my girlfriend of four years. This would be my last year, I told her, I would be home. I cried that night. I held her until I couldn’t cry any more. The next day, we said our goodbyes, and I was sent out. Only a few more months, I would tell myself. I was sent to fight in Abkhazia without another thought. While the distance from her wasn’t unbearable, however I needed to stay alive. I wanted to propose as soon as I was home. That never ended up happening, I realized.

My hand slowly fell from the photo as the realization hit me. I backed away, walking to another wall. That man, whom I was so afraid to find out wasn’t me, was me. I continued to look around, hearing two voices approach the room I had been in. I ignored it, beginning to put piece by piece together. My fingers ran over a photo. It was of a young girl with the woman I had loved since 2003. I turned around slowly, realizing now why I had been ignored all this time.

I watched the two women sit together, laughing. The girl I had followed home; she wasn’t who I was looking for. But I was so happy I did. I ran a hand through my slightly curly hair, watching as the mother spun her car keys in her hand. I was home. These were my two girls. Tears finally fell to the ground as a strange relief washed over me. Years and years of searching, I had finally found them. Although they couldn’t see me, feel me, or speak with me, I was there. I was there for my girls. My daughter, my wife. I was home.