Who is Miss Callaghan?

I still don't know what to make of her. Even now, I can't figure out if she was real or just a fever dream I got lost in. She was wild in a way I'd never seen before-someone who made no sense yet somehow made all the sense in the world.

She'd sit by the river in the park, smoking with a defiance that dared anyone to challenge her. I remember the first time I saw her. I was fuming about something-can't recall what exactly. But seeing her was like a shift, a sign, or perhaps just a distraction I didn't need.

"Got a light?" she asked, her eyes sparkling as though she'd found a new plaything. I wanted to brush her off, but instead, I pulled out my lighter. Her laugh, that damn laugh, irritated me, yet I handed it over.

"What's your name?" she asked, not genuinely curious but as if she was filling in gaps of a story only she knew.

"Elijah," I said, half daring her to mock me.

"Elijah," she repeated, savoring the name then grinned. "I like it. I'm Lydia. Miss Callaghan to everyone else, but you can call me whatever you want."

I should've walked away. I should've ignored her. But I stayed. I listened to her stories that seemed to meander with no point, her laugh-a loud, carefree sound, as if the world was a joke only she understood. I tried to figure her out. I'm still trying, if I'm honest.

She'd ask the strangest questions-"What do you think pigeons dream about?" or "Ever feel like you're stuck in a bad painting?"-throwing me off, making me feel small and foolish. But she'd watch me with those sharp, glittering eyes, waiting. I never knew how to respond.

I should've left. Should've stopped coming back. But I didn't. I don't know why. She was chaos, and I hated chaos. Yet, with her, it felt... different. Like she held answers I didn't even know I sought. Or maybe she was just another question.

I still think about her, wonder if I ever truly knew her. Maybe she was never meant to be understood, only felt and remembered, and I do. I remember. Every damn day.