I'd always see her, but I don't think she sees me.

She's always there, in her oversized sweater and thin glasses, sipping from a big porcelain cup. Her eyes, a swirl of kaleidoscopic thoughts, seemed distracted, eternally gazing into some faraway realm.

She seemed so real. I could hold her hand, and even talk to her. Let that swirl of kaleidoscopic colours stop and focus on me. Maybe even go out and run around the nightlife of the city. Another two people, running around the labyrinthine alleys and streets, laughing and experiencing and living.

I could do so many things.

I could have done so many things.

I was seventeen once again, in the same seat, in the same café, with the same view of the lights and skyline dreams of the city. 

And there was a girl, with her sleeveless white blouse and blue jeans, in that same spot, drinking from a white porcelain cup.

She had a disheveled, yet dignified air around her, her eyes aimed downwards to prevent any eye contact with anybody. She was lonely, and it seemed like I was the only one who could see.

I could've helped myself to the seat facing her, and maybe, perhaps, made her night just a little better. I could make her laugh, her dignified airs slowly giving way to the thrill of camaraderie, of having someone to talk to. 

Maybe, somewhere after that, we could go around the city together, hand in hand, like one of those old rom-coms my dad loves to watch. Letting the energy of the city diffuse at our presence, no matter how small, and relaxing at the feel of each others' company.

And maybe, at the old swing set, creaking after years of disuse, we would sit and talk, about ships and sealing wax, of the world and its troubles, of us and what would be. We could hold hands, embracing by the tips of our fingers, and watch the sun give way to the little stars, eager to show off their formations.

That could all happen in a blink of an eye. And in a move.

It could happen, but would never happen.

And suddenly, I was 35 again, with work and troubles hounding me, and the girl with her oversized sweater and thin glasses sipping from her porcelain cup. Another girl, but the same fantasies.

Projecting bygones into the present, porcelain dreams to the world of iron and steel.

Perhaps it was time to let go.

And so I sit, watching the bygones increase, and the hole inside grow wider.