Have We Met Before?

They always met the same way.

Not with thunder or prophecy or a flash of light—but with a pause. A hesitation. A moment when the world seemed to lean in and hold its breath across vast oceans of time.

And one of them would say, softly, uncertainly:

“Have we met before?”

I. Medieval England — 1191

The abbey bells were ringing for terce when Eleanor spilled her basket of apples in the cloister garden.

A knight in travel-stained mail bent at once to help her gather them. His hands were battle scarred, his movements careful, reverent—as if each apple were something precious, something to protect.

“Forgive me, my lady,” he said. “I wasn’t looking where I was going.”

She looked up.

Something clicked behind her ribs.

“I—” Eleanor frowned, studying his face. “This is strange, Sir Knight but… have we met before?”

He stilled, one apple balanced in his palm. Slowly, he smiled—not surprised, but relieved.

“I was just about to ask you the same thing.”

They spoke only a little that day. Names. Nothing more. He was bound for the Holy Land to defend pilgrims from Saracen raiding parties. She was bound for a life of vows and silence.

They parted at the abbey gate.

Yet as he walked away, the knight turned back, certain of one thing only:

He would search for her in every lifetime to come, as surely as a ship finds a beacon. He could only hope she was waiting there for him.

II. Georgian England — 1772

The assembly room in Bath shimmered with candlelight and violin strings.

Elizabeth adjusted her gloves, nerves fluttering. She had been coaxed by her mother, sisters, and cousins into attending, despite her reluctance for dances and introductions and men who all seemed so very interchangeable.

Then one was not.

He stood near the refreshments, dark-haired, slightly awkward, clearly more comfortable with books and abacuses than ballrooms. When their eyes met, he frowned—as though trying to remember something important.

She approached without quite knowing why.

“Sir,” she said, heart racing. “Forgive me for being so forward, but… have we met before?”

His breath caught.

“No,” he said. Then, with quiet wonder, “But I’ve been waiting for you.”

They danced once. Only once. He left for India with the Company weeks later. Letters crossed oceans, then stopped.

Elizabeth never married.

Yet sometimes, in the mirror, she caught a glimpse of herself smiling at someone who wasn’t there at all, and someone who was there all the same.

III. Victorian London — 1851

The Great Exhibition dazzled with glass and steel and impossible machines.

Margaret stood sketching the Crystal Palace when a man leaned over her shoulder.

“You’ve captured it wrong,” he said gently. “It’s not the structure that matters. It’s the way the light makes everyone look hopeful.”

She turned, startled—and felt the world tilt.

“You,” she whispered. “This is absurd, but… have we met before?”

He laughed, a sound of pure recognition. “Everywhere, I think.”

They walked for hours, talking of inventions, poetry, about the Queen and the Prince Consort, and of the future. He kissed her hand once—properly, reverently.

Two years later, he died of cholera during a summer outbreak with her name on his quivering lips.

Margaret kept his notebook until her own death, never understanding why its margin sketches felt like memories rather than drawings.

IV. America — 1863

The field hospital smelled of blood and smoke. The acrid smell of gunpowder permeated the air outside.

Clara moved from cot to cot, exhaustion heavy in her bones. A young Confederate soldier caught her wrist as she passed, eyes shining and fever-bright just before it went dull with death.

“Miss,” he rasped.

“Yes?”

He searched her face with desperate intensity.

“Have we met before?”

Her throat tightened. “No,” she said. Then, inexplicably, tears spilled over like parallel rivers that drowned everyone and everything in their path. “But I know you.”

He smiled weakly. “Good. Then I won’t be afraid.”

He died before dawn.

Clara carried his face with her long after the war ended, long after the nation stitched itself back together.

V. World War I — 1917

Rain turned the French road to mud.

A nurse and an officer collided near a makeshift hospital, papers scattering.

“I’m sorry!” they said in unison.

They froze.

She laughed softly. “This is going to sound foolish, but… have we met before?”

He stared at her, eyes shining beneath his helmet. “Yes,” he said, without hesitation. “I just don’t know when.”

They shared stolen hours between shellings, spoke of peace like a fragile dream. They spoke of the families they left behind back home, about the family they wanted to have together when this was all over.

A telegram arrived one gray morning.

She pressed it to her chest and whispered, “Next time,” as if it were a promise rather than a prayer. “Wait for me.”

VI. World War II — 1944

The dance hall smelled of sweat, cheap perfume, and hope.

Music crackled from the radio. He asked her to dance. She said yes before he finished the sentence.

Mid-spin, she laughed, breathless.

“Don’t think I’m mad, but… have we met before?”

He pulled her closer, forehead resting briefly against hers.

“Feels like I’ve loved you forever.”

They married quickly. He shipped out days later.

This time—this one time—he came home.

They grew old together, holding hands on a porch, occasionally pausing mid-conversation with the same shared look of wonder.

When she died first, his last words were, “I’ll find you again.”

VII. Now

The coffee shop was crowded and loud and ordinary.

They reached for the same cup.

“Oh—sorry,” Bryce said.

“No, my fault,” Summer said apologetically, embarrassed.

Their hands brushed.

The noise faded.

The moment stretched.

One of them—neither was sure who—maybe both at the same time, asked quietly:

“Have we met before?”

The Summer smiled, eyes filling with recognition, with centuries of yeses.

“I was hoping you’d remember.”

This time, there was no war. No separation. No unfinished letters.

Just two souls, finally arriving at the same moment in time—ready, at last, to stay.