Her hair is darker than I remember, much sleeker. It’s obvious she has been styling it more often. Her face is different too. She no longer has those chubby cheeks she used to have and her flaws are covered up by caky make-up. She looks at me, her drawn on eyebrows arch into a questioning expression. In her hand she is holding a lit cigarette. I don’t know when she started smoking, but I guess it suits this new her. I tuck a strand of my blond hair behind my ear and look back at her, feeling awfully plain in my black outfit and no more make-up than a few coats of mascara.
‘I haven’t seen you in quite a while,’ I tell her. She just shrugs. I study her features a bit closer. She still has the same nose, with that small birthmark on the side of it’s tip. Her lips are the same shade of pink, but I don’t recognise the expression edged on her face. It’s colder. It’s like I am a stranger, annoying her by asking strange, useless questions she has no time to answer. But then I guess, I am a stranger. And in all truth, she is a stranger to me.
‘You want a cigarette?’ She offers me the small package in which only two cigarettes are left. The smell of the tobacco nauseates me. I shake my head.
‘I don’t smoke.’ I try not to think about how, no one who knows me well, would ever have offered me a cigarette. The thought of her no longer belonging to those, hurts me. I feel a strange, bitter taste in my mouth. It’s the awful taste of the word ‘stranger’, especially when that person used to have the sweet taste of the word ‘friend’. She leans against her car. I pull my backpack further over my shoulder. It presses unnecessarily against my back, but I feel like I can’t let go of anything else. If I let go, even only a little bit, I will lose it. Just like I’ve lost her.
‘We could go for a drive,’ she offers and gestures to the old car, that doesn’t look all that trustworthy. I nod. Anything is better than remaining standing on the parking lot of this grey train station, completely exposed to the cold winter air. She walks around her car and opens the door on the drivers side. Even though she has asked me to join her for a drive, I feel like an intruder opening the door on the passengers side. I slowly slide into the chair and shiver. It smells like cigarettes and dog in the car, and also something that is less distinctive. It could be marijuana, but I am not sure. I pick up an empty tin can from the seat, but before I can do something with it, she pulls it out of my hand and throws it outside. She then slams the door shut. A bit surprised I close the door at my side. The engine roars to life spluttering. She pulls away from the small parking lot, onto the empty road. Wisps of smoke curl into the air and I look at them. I want to ask her to stop smoking, but I don’t. Instead, I turn to the window and look as the buildings flash by while the car accelerates.
‘So, what happened to you?’ I ask. She doesn’t answer for a long while and from the corner of my eyes I can see her opening the window and throwing the cigarette out. Eventually she turns onto the highway and shrugs.
‘I grew up.’ I look at her, waiting for her to laugh, as if it’s a joke. Of course she grew up, everyone did. She looks at me and I’m surprised by the hurt look in her eyes. It is like she has aged many years in just two short years. She looks back at the road and in silence I study her figure. She is thin, not too thin, but not far from. My eyes dart back and forward from her eyes to her lips. I want to look at her wrists, knowing what I will find there, but I am scared. I am scared to find conformation on what I have been thinking. That she wasn’t okay without me. That I should have been there for her. In the end I can’t help but looking at her pale wrists. I swallow and quickly look away, tears stinging in my eyes.
‘What about you?’ she asks, after a few minutes of silence.
‘I don’t know,’ I whisper. ‘I tried to grow up, but I still feel like a child.’
‘You look older,’ she tells me and I know she doesn’t mean I physically look older. I know she can see the same pain in my eyes as I see in hers. At least, that’s what I hope that she sees. Maybe that is just wishful thinking and maybe I really do look older. It has been two years after all.
‘You know,’ I tell her and I look at her, ‘I am glad to see you again. I have missed you.’ For a moment I am afraid she will scold at me. I feel vulnerable. Exposed. My stomach clenches, but then, she smiles. Around us, the world is a blur of shapes and colours. It’s just the two of us in that world we once created. A world we would be safe in. A world that one day shattered, but the pieces are still there and with a little work, we might be able to glue it back together.
‘Why didn’t you contact me?’ The smile has left her voice and I swallow. I know the answer, but I don’t dare to say it. Why? I couldn’t face myself. I couldn’t get over my pride. I was afraid you might not want me back.
‘I didn’t know what to say,’ I tell her. ‘Why didn’t you?’ She doesn’t answer. I wonder if she might be thinking the same. Have these past two years been just as lonely for her as they have been for me? Have the friendships she has had never been as real for her either? I want to tell her what I am feeling, but I realise I can’t and neither can she. We have gotten so used to covering up our feelings, that sharing them feels like doing something wrong. I wish to connect with her, but opening up means giving her the aims to hurt me. And it already did go so terribly wrong once. So I just remain silent, looking at the world flashing by, listening at the rattling of the engine and trying not to smell the lingering scent of cigarettes and wet dog. I close my eyes and try my very best to imagine myself sitting next to a friend with who I can laugh about stupid things, who doesn’t judge my mistakes and understands my tears. Because pretending hurts less than admitting we will now never be anything more, than acquainted strangers.
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