I manage to breathe again, then I turn my head to look at Isak.
He’s gotten within a few steps of me. Close enough, I imagine, to make sure that it’s really me. I don’t know if I’ve managed to keep whatever the fuck it is I’m feeling off my face, because Isak certainly hasn’t. He’s staring at me, barely blinking, like if his eyelids drop a millisecond too long, I’ll prove to be an illusion.
I don’t know how to tell him that I’m very real. I don’t know how he could possibly be.
He’s like every other memory I’ve encountered in this city. It’s him, but not quite. He’s wearing a light grey buttoned shirt, and dark grey slacks, overtop of some very nice brown leather oxfords. He looks comfortable like this, and I remember trying to make him dress like anything other than a teenager, and coming up against resistance that one would expect in guerrilla warfare. His hair has gone long again, parted on the side. This is a parallel universe Isak if there ever was one.
There’s a pile of papers in his hand, dangling at his side. He’s about to lose them. He’ll drop them if he doesn’t stop staring at me. Maybe I should stop staring back, but that would mean knowing what to do. And I have absolutely no idea of what should come next.
Enough time passes that I realize things have become very dramatic. So I say the first thing that comes to mind. “Hey.”
