The Girl from the Past

A girl I used to know walks up the platform and sits on the bench where I'm sitting.

I know her right away. She's the one from my past. I saw her, years ago now. She just disappeared into the background, and became a memory. I pause for a moment, and note how this seemed to happen with so many people that I've once associated with.

"Will, isn't it?"

She looks at me, her eyes twinkling feverishly as they always had done, the sunlight captured in her hair. She was always a natural redhead. I thought back to when we were both sixteen and she dyed her hair black. It was like coating a flower's head in tar—tarnishing natural beauty, coating it in poison. It only took two hours before she realised it was probably one of the worst decisions she had ever made.

I nod. "Yep. Layla, it's great to see you."

"How are you?" She chirrups.

Layla looks at me, her face filled with expectation, a smile pursed upon her lips. My stomach is knotting in every direction; I feel sick.

"I'm great," I lie. "Just coming back from work, same again tomorrow." I notice as she clocks my suit, the laptop bag swung across my shoulders. I wonder if she spots the tired expression, the stress lines around my eyes, my forced smile making me feel like my face is about to crack into two...

"You always worked so hard," she smiles. "It's not a bad thing," she adds quickly. "If anything it's good."

My mind casts back to when we were 20. Nights spent out in bars, crawling home in the early hours, falling asleep on the sofa, a chair, the floor, whatever was easiest. The thing is though, I never went out with her, on those nights. I would watch, peering over my laptop, as she came back with her friends, as she stumbled in through the door trying not to make any noise, and in doing so making the most noise possible.

"Shush," she would giggle to herself, as she scraped the key in the lock and flung the door open.

"Be quiet," she would whisper to her friends, as she, herself, staggered up the stairs, knocking a lamp down on the way up.

"Oh hi, Will!" She'd slur, noticing me as she came out of the bathroom. "Sorry, did they wake you? They're being awfully noisy aren't they?" Then I would guide her into the bedroom, give her a glass of water, perhaps a bowl on the floor if I thought it necessary, and tuck her into bed.

"Was I too boring for you?" I think to myself.

"What?" She turns, her pupils wide.

My chest floods with this anxious heat, as I realise what I've done.

"No, not at all—we were just at two different stages in life," she explains. "You were ahead of your time," she smiles. But it's not a real smile. I can tell when people don't mean it—the smile doesn't quite meet the eyes.

This awkwardness settles between us again. A feeling that is very familiar to me.

"Look, the stuff between you and me happened a long time ago. We were different people back then," this time she does smile genuinely. I can tell. There's a note of softness in her eyes that wasn't there before. "We're different people now. We're changing all the time."

This I know is true. There we were, two strangers who had once known each other, sitting on a bench in the middle of a busy station, as hundreds of commuters snaked on and off trains. There we were, two people in our late twenties, memories being the only thing we had in common.

"So, what are you up to now?" I ask, clutching at straws, desperately trying to guide the conversation elsewhere. "Did you ever get that little shop you wanted?"

As a matter of fact, yes. Zoe, remember her? Anyway, we've gone into business together, got a shop down in Camden."

Oh yes, I remembered Zoe. She was one of Layla's best friends. It was a relationship entirely built on drinking. I used to wonder how long the friendship would last. Isn't life full of surprises?

"I'm happy for you," I smile. And I honestly am happy for her. She used to draw up plans of what the shop would look like, what clothes she would make, how she would dress the window, even down to the finer points like what music she'd play...

...She raises her hand, and I see something flash on her hand.

"Oh, and I'm engaged! Wedding's next May!"

How did I not notice that? That huge rock embedded on her finger.

"Wow!" I manage to choke. "Congratulations!"

"Thanks so much," she blushes. "Do you remember Ryan?"

My heart feels as if it's been rammed repeatedly into my rib cage. Of course I remember Ryan. He was the guy she cheated on me with.

"Yeah, I think I remember him," my voice slightly stony and cold. "Congratulations to you both. I must be going anyway, I've got an early start tomorrow and I've still got to catch another train home." I glance at the platform display, blinking up ahead. It leaves in eight minutes.

"Okay. Well, look, it's great to have bumped into you like this. I can't believe it's been so long," she pauses. "You don't have to, but maybe we could go for coffee sometime? It would just be so nice to catch up with you properly."

We swap phone numbers. I save her as a "new contact," when in reality she's an old contact. A very, very old contact.

"Bye, Will. It was great to see you—and stay in touch, yeah?"

I wave her off. I watch as she walks to the opposite end of the station as me, her hair bouncing—she's bouncing too, she always had this little walk that was more like a dance. I look at her as she turns the corner, and know full well it will be the last time I see her—unless I bump into her again, by which point she might have one or two kids in tow.

I walk hurriedly to catch my train. I get there just in time, and I take a seat by the window. As the train starts up, I watch life pass me by outside. How strange it is how the past can come back to haunt you. How strange it is, that life can pass you by without noticing. Bumping into her then, it was as if I was back at university again. Seven years of separation, just totally melted away in an instant.

I open my phone, and look at the contact display.

'Layla,' the new contact entry flashes.

I hit delete, and my life continues as normal.