I first noticed her on a Tuesday morning in February on one of those hazy mornings when the nothing much was going on around the city at that time. I was rushing to catch the 7:45 bus. She was standing at the opposite stop, reading a book of which I recognized the title—The Shadow of the Wind. One of my favorites. At first, I thought it was nothing more than a passing observation. But then I saw her again. The next time was two weeks later, in a coffee shop near the office where I worked. I had walked in for a cappuccino. There she was, at the far corner table, with the same book next to her cup of tea. Our eyes met for a second—just a second—before she looked back down. I still didn't think it to be nothing more than a mere coincidence. I mean, cities are like that, right? Millions of people happen to find themselves crossing paths almost every now and then. Except it kept happening. It was a Saturday at the farmer's market by the old church. I'd gone to get some groceries. She was by the honey stand, with a jar in her hand. I almost laughed because she looked so serious about it. She noticed me then. “You again?” I said without thinking whether it sounded friendly or rather strange. She smiled. “Or maybe you again.” That was it. No introduction, no names exchanged. It was yet another day. I was at the museum with a friend, staring at a painting I didn't understand, when I saw a figure from quite a distance that seemed so familiar. She was across the gallery, looking at that same painting. This time she walked over and then stood beside me. “Do you get it?” she asked, looking confused as she stared at the canvas. “Not even little,” I said. “But I've been pretending for the last five minutes.” She laughed. We talked then. About the painting. About the museum. About books and coffee and how it seemed strange that we just kept on seeing each other everywhere. Her name was Brenda. She lived in the same neighborhood, walked at a publishing house I'd passed by a 100 times but never stepped into. We continued running into each other occasionally which made me begin to wonder, Why does the city keep throwing us together? But life has a way of being complicated. I was in a breakup with someone recently. She mentioned that she was seeing someone “sort of.” Neither of us pressed further. It was late summer, a thunderstorm was rolling in. I was running towards the subway entrance when I saw her. She was standing close to the bookstore. She held her notebook firmly against her chest. “You'll get soaked,” I called out as I drew nearer to her. “I liked the rain,” she replied, though she didn't move from her spot. I joined her. Both of us silent for a moment, just the rain fall. “Funny how we keep running into each other,” I said last. She turned and looked at me. “Do you ever think if it means something?” I wanted to say yes. I wanted to save I'd been wondering from the second time, maybe even the first. Maybe the city is smaller than we think. She smiled in a way that made me think that she wanted me to say more. I was at a train station. Out of the blues, there she was again. No notebook this time. No book. Just her standing at the opposite platform. For second, the noise of the station fell away. It was just the two of us, two people who had been pulled together by invisible strings, over and over again. It was just the two of us. She saw me. I saw her. And then my trained arrived. I could've crossed over, called out, done something. But I didn't. Maybe because I was afraid. Maybe because I believed if the city wanted us to meet again, it would find a way. As the train pulled out, she disappeared into the crowd. But whenever I pass that coffee shop, or the market by the church, or the bus stop on a hazy February morning, I find myself looking. Just incase the city is not quite finished with us yet.
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