One Hundred and Forty Three

I saw you in the metro the other day.

I could've sworn it was you, at Lionel, I was so convinced, even from the distance, from your haircut, from your different hoodie, from all the way across the platform. I could've sworn it was you because I'd recognize you anywhere. And as the metro arrived I just stared at you, and I think you stared back.

When you got off at Peel and I stayed on for McGill, you took the long way around to walk up the stairs in front of me, narrowly avoiding my gaze. And I fought, for the briefest of moments, my feet to jump out and chase you. Instead I just watched you, and I laughed to myself that usually this was my stop. Usually I too would take those stairs, turn that corner, head down that hallway, and for the past few years I always secretly hoped we would pass one another, we would meet again, and make pleasantries.
And that day, the first and possibly only day we would ever find ourselves here, we couldn't. For a reason so simple as a DVD that needed to be returned at a very specific time on a very specific day in a very specific library closest to a very specific metro.

It's so odd, isn't it.
That theatre of all things kept us apart.

or

or maybe I finally have nothing left to say to you.
(I sincerely doubt that, though. I have a lot of things to tell you. Like I'm happy. I'm happy, these days, in a way that I genuinely never knew I could be. It's terrifying and new and everything no one told me it'd be.
But I'm happy. And I really hope you are, too.)