Work Text:
It's really an amazing day. I still can't process that it actually happened, it just seems too—too unlikely, to narrow a possibility. The possibility of moving to another country, getting a job, traveling some more, and then in a city completely different from the starting point, finding someone you know.
Let me get this from the start. I had just moved to a city God knows where in the middle of Europe, as usual. A writer needs to get around, yeah? I took the train downtown, where there was a cafe I frequented even if it was a little far; it was close to my agency (and I'd grown attached to the barista, a beautiful asian girl called Mikasa). Now that I recall, every detail of this morning comes to mind.
I sat beside the window of the train. I always did, since the passing suburbs always give me a strange sense of calmness. When the city came in sight and the train started making stops, I looked down at the battered notebook on my lap. Then I was faced with the task of deciding what to write; whether to begin a column for the magazine back home I write for, or to continue working on the novel my agency had recently approved. That second one would be a difficult task, since I ran into a particularly damn stubborn case of writer's block shortly after beginning, so I just started to get my philosopher on and jotting down ideas for that column.
I had a steady dozen of ideas surrounding the topic the editors gave me, when the speaker announced my stop and the train slowed down. I looked out the window to the station, proving that it was indeed my stop, and put the notebook in my backpack.
In that unnecessary glance, though, I thought I saw a familiar face among the crowd. But my subconscious decided (not without reason) that it was too unlikely, and ruled it out.
Anyways, I stood up and made a beeline to get off the train. But again, as I stepped onto the station, the familiar face brushed past me. This time I whirled around, trying to scan for it among all the passing faces, because even if it wasn't him then who has the right to resemble him so much.
I couldn't find him. The train announced its departure and the doors closed. Disappointed, I just stood there like an idiot watching it go. The nostalgia was too much to bear—he was the only thing I really missed from my old life, and getting my hopes up like that was just painful.
But then I saw the familiar face for the third time, and really, the resemblance was uncanny. It was inside the already moving train, looking out the window with a vaguely troubled, distant look. And like the reckless shit I am, I ran. I didn't even know if it was really him or not, but I still jumped between the carts. If anyone tried to stop me, I was too possessed by adrenalin and emotion to know or care.
So yeah, I boarded the train and laughed, partly at the ridiculousness and partly at the intimidating danger. I had done it so fast I didn't even have time to be scared. But as the train started to really gain speed, I opened the cart door and entered anyways. I'd gotten this far.
I crossed wagons until I was sure I was in the one he was in. Then I started scanning every face on the left side of the train, until I saw the back of his head.
With his back to me, I gulped and came into view. He was still looking out the window to his left side, and my moment of glory was interrupted by the sight of his right. There was no right arm, and this side of his face had old burn scars. The accident. How could I forget.
He was my boyfriend when we were seventeen, back in Trost, but my family had to move away. Then I heard he had an accident and didn't remember me. That was over ten years ago. So even if I were to call his name, even if I were to gasp “Marco!” and swoop into his arms like in the books, would he even remember my name?
Before I could decide what to do, he sensed my presence and turned around. He looked just like back then—a mild undercut on soft black hair, sun-kissed skin, and constellations of freckles under wide hazel eyes. I myself let a short well-kept goatee grow on my chin, but if he did remember, I hoped I was recognizable from when we were teenagers.
And as if all my prayers came to reality, and all the improbabilities in the world gathered at that very moment, he opened his soft, pink lips and said, "Jean?"