One day I'll see you again.
And someone will introduce us because they won’t have any proof that you and I know each other. Knew each other. We'll politely say hello, and then continue on in our neighboring conversations. Not allowing anything we’ve ever felt before to resurface. And we’ll hide behind our extra glasses of wine as means to go unnoticed. And then we’ll wander home, forcing ourselves to continue on living the lives we've been living since the last time we said goodbye. And when we attempt to subtly bring it up to our friends, we’ll say that we were okay. We were fine. That we handled ourselves in a mature and adult fashion. Nothing was awkward or uncomfortable. Even though one of us is lying. And one of us will think about this interaction all through next week. Because “did”s and “didn’t”s seem to cling and linger. Because all loves have some child-ness sprinkled on them. Arrogance coated in the veins. Lies laced in truth. And it makes us say things opposite than what we feel, in hope that people won’t see that we’re broken. But still leaving enough to show we want someone to ask more. And each day that follows, we wake up remembering each other differently. Bit by bit and slightly altered. And the memories bounce from being something good to bad. To an agonizing good again.
One day I’ll see you again and will hardly recognize you.
And it’ll all come screaming back to me from the moment you ask how I am in that way that I hate. And the more we talk, I’ll realize how you’ve changed. How I’ve changed. How we seem to be better versions of ourselves. In a larger sense. And I won’t know if it means if I miss you or not. If I should say something to express that. Or at least something that will mean I’ll see you again. And as we wait for each other’s next move, it’ll be just hesitant enough to make it over that unknown and questioning hump of our maybes. And it’ll be that sigh that we’ve shared too much often with each other. And when you lightly touch my left arm telling me to take care, I’ll give a defeated smile as I say, same to you. And we’ll walk away knowing that we should’ve hugged at least. And I’ll be sad to have to say goodbye again. Then we’ll go on living the lives we’ve been living in our more defined paths we’ve begun to carve for ourselves. Focusing on where we want to be. And start to search for someone who doesn’t give us so much to be uncertain of.
One day I’ll see you again and I’ll be angry about everything that I grew out of and didn’t care about anymore.
It’ll be at that one bar I pictured running into you in a farther future. When my life is sorted out and there are things to brag about. But you’ll be with that one girl and hold her in public the way you never did with me. And I’ll cry to my new co-workers in the bathroom about it. And they look at each other, the way girls do when they witness too much emotion about something that happened ages ago. But I’ll think that I love you again. And I’ll have a consuming need to talk to you about it. And tell you that you broke me. Blame you for whatever. Say how I’m lost. And alone. And sad. Even though I shouldn't when I’m drunk and stupid. And I should see how I really feel in the morning. But I don’t. Because I ignore the advice I get because they don’t know what I know. And you’ll pull me outside when I start raising my voice. And tell me I should go home. And I'll get angered by your unwillingness to talk. And push past your dry words because I’m too busy pouring out bottled-up feelings. But once I start to stumble backwards I finally accept I need to leave. And as get in the cab, I’ll see you through the window kissing her right before I go. Then as I fall back into my old tears, I’ll inescapably text you gibberish the whole ride home. Waking up with the aching embarrassment of everything. Wanting to apologize and redeem myself. Unsure how. Attempted. Then brushed off.
One day I'll see you again and I won’t fully comprehend if it really happened.
And you’ll see me at that one place at the one time. And it won't be acknowledged. But it’ll make you rethink things as your reach for her hand and she pulls away. And I’ll be too invested in what's become my new and exciting life, after it took me too long to move on. And it won’t phase me until later that I think I might have seen you. And I’ll tell myself that it didn’t really happen. That I only thought it did because I heard someone say your name in passing. And it doesn’t matter at all if it did or didn’t happen. As most things seem to not as the years go on. But I’ll still sleep restlessly pondering the real truth. And the next day will be all thrown off and I’ll keep messing up on my, supposedly, mindless routine tasks. And by simply looking at that mug you gave me, I’ll be reminded of how you could always make me laugh. And how you cared. And I’ll go to call you, forgetting that I had to delete your number because I was getting bad about it. And then I’ll remember why you and I weren’t right. And when I saw you that one time as the better person that I wished you’d be when you were with me, means that I wasn’t someone who was going to make you that. And it’ll be the saddest realization that’ll make me the better person that I need to be. And then I'll go on living the life I’d been living since needing to forget you.
But that day isn't today.
And you're just someone I tell people I loved, but still do, that stopped loving me. And I feel motionless and exposed. The same as everyone does when these kinds of things happen to them. But irritated by people who tell me that they know how I feel. That they understand. That they’ve been there before. That they have good remedies. Good advice. Even though it’s personal. Even though it’s just you and me. Even though that's not a thing anymore. And you are where you are and I am where I am. And one day this will all be a story that’s just a story. One that has faded scars and scattered moments of unimportance. One that doesn’t need this kind of time or energy I put into telling it. Because in the end, what did and didn’t happen, did and didn't happen. What you said and what I said were just things that we said. Because one day, I’ll see you again. And when that day comes, I hope that I’ll be happy. That you'll be happy. And we'll be happy. But not together. As it should be.
Becca Wyant is originally from Seattle, Washington now living in California as a Photographer, Graphic Designer, and Writer. Some of her work has been published in Nailed Magazine, Calliope Literary Arts Magazine at the University of the Pacific, and also many of her one-act plays, 10-minute plays, and monologues have been performed on stage. She has become a writer exploring the connections of bitter truths and broken dialogue. While endeavoring the patterns of communication through art and literature, moments from her past have resurfaced and taken form. Each piece she has created holds something for everyone, a path, a memory, a face, or simply, a connection.