I was travelling with family when you found out I was within a ten kilometre radius from where you were. We were, quite literally, on the other side of the globe from the place we found pieces of ourselves through each other.
I’ve been roaming around The Met since morning even though we were still meeting at noon. We chose Perseus with the Head of Medusa as our meeting place – an ode to the first movie we watched together in your lumpy queen sized bed half a decade ago. You were already standing by the sculpture when I arrived at the gallery. You looked great, of course. You looked exactly like the man the boy I loved would have wanted to be. Crisp suit, sleek hair and a really confident stance.
I laughed to myself when I remembered how I looked compared to you. I was wearing a thrice-worn pair of jeans, a baggy shirt, an even baggier sweater, a really bulky sling bag and, of course, a camera around my neck. The only thing missing was a hat that said, “Hi, I’m a tourist!”
You saw me before I could choose what my next step would be. I was deciding whether I would approach and greet you hello or run away and make up an excuse that my family won’t let me go off alone. I was, after all, sneaking away from them to meet you. I was 24-years-old but I still felt like I had to see you secretly, just as we did when we were younger.
Your hug was still the same. Your chin rested comfortably on top of my head, my head that fit your chest perfectly. I didn’t feel smothered even though your hug was one of the tightest I’ve had. It felt like home. I was back to feeling like a giddy teenager for a split second, but I reminded myself that we weren’t those kids anymore.
“It’s been, what, four years? You still smell the same, clean and sweet.”
“Almost four years, yeah. You smell better, thank god,” I quipped.
We walked awkwardly beside each other, not knowing what distance former lovers were supposed to walk in.
The whole scenario was poetic. We were walking through artifacts and artworks from ancient and past civilisations while we reminisced and laughed about our own history – our own insignificant past compared to the marvels in this museum. I laughed at the thought.
“Significance is relative, like most things,” you said as if reading my mind.
You were the best at that. You understood me so well because we thought so alike. It’s what made us work but it was what also, unfortunately, led to our end.
After an hour of walking through rooms filled with worldly pasts, we stopped in a gallery that housed a painting that reminded us of ours.
We sat on the bench in the middle of the gallery and realised we were alone. Maybe everyone’s having lunch, or maybe the universe wanted us to have some time alone.
“That painting looks like Mooloolaba, doesn’t it? Only inverted,” I said.
You nodded and followed with another question, one more loaded than mine.
“So, are you over him yet,” you asked while looking at the painting.
“I think so,” I answered meekly while staring at the floor.
“You’re not,” you sighed. We both knew you were right.
“Well, if it helps, I haven’t moved on from you either,” you added.
“It doesn’t,” I answered and looked you in the eye for the first time in four years. “I’m sorry.”
I saw all of our memories in your eyes and I know you saw them in mine too. You inched closer and our lips found each other. It felt like we could have gone on forever.
The universe, of course, had other plans. A swarm of Asian tourists came into the gallery as if reminding us that we can never be. Our lips parted as you leaned your forehead against mine.
“So… this is it for us,” you said.
“Looks like it,” I answered.
We shared one last sad smile before you headed off and went back to work. I stayed in front of the painting for several minutes before my phone started buzzing from my mum’s call. I had to get back to the real world.
I guess you were meant to be the one that will never be, but for a brief moment in front of Monet’s Regatta at Sainte-Adresse, we could have been.
The Chronicles of Nimia 