Recovery

3 Years Later

In three years time, you're standing at the crossroads when you see her. She's got a brown leather bag hanging off one shoulder, and a pearly white ribbon hanging around her neck. Her head bobs along to a song you can't hear and you find yourself wondering what she sings in the shower nowadays - what she listens to before falling asleep. She used to joke that singing wasn't her forte, and that music wasn't her strength; but you loved her Sunday morning humming; her smile on your mouth; your fingers in her dress.

She opens her eyes a little wider and gives you a wave. There isn't much time for talking as you walk past each other and the green man starts to flash. You think her hair looks different, not the color or the style, but the way it frames her face. She doesn't look so girlish when she says "hey" and offers you a grin.

And when she walks past, you can't help but turn and watch. You wonder who listens to her talk about the stars at night, or who carries her home when she's drunk. Three years ago she told you she loved you. Today you almost say it back.