While you remember me

By Lexi Jones

As I walked down the familiar streets of my little town on the outskirts of San Francisco, it began to dawn on me that this familiarity would be the only recognizable part of my life. I’ve been following the footsteps molded into the pavement that I’ve always trailed behind, continuing rounds of the daily ritual which consisted of boring errands in an endless, repetitive cycle.

As I veered around the block, I waved to the record store owner across the street. He smiled at me like we had never met… even though we had spoken for 20 minutes yesterday about the jazz records he sells from a crate by the door… and 25 minutes the day before yesterday… 40 the day before that. Today I got the same small nod he gives strangers. I’m used to it now. I just wish I’d had more time before it started happening with people who mattered.

People started to forget. Not everything. They can hold my name, what I’m doing that day, how I am. But as soon as the conversation ends, it all fades away. Leaks out from under the surface and becomes another handful of time spent meaningless. It’s like I’m only real when I’m right in front of them. As soon as I’m gone, I’m gone. Completely unrecognized.

It wasn’t always this way. I had people. I had history. Then one day the thread just… snapped. It only just got worse, lonelier and more confusing. I usually blame myself for igniting all of this in the first place. I was so deep into my own life that it was almost as if I wanted to be forgotten. But I didn’t know what I wanted. I just got what I deserved.

I was halfway through my errands when I saw her. She was standing by the bus stop, scrolling through her phone. The sun gleamed over her hair in a way that made her stand out from the rest of the street. I don’t know why I stopped, but I did, and my legs started moving toward her without my permission.

We ended up sitting on either side of the bench, awkwardly making side-eye contact until I broke the silence and complimented her earrings. It wasn’t much longer until the conversation started flowing more naturally. At the start it was about how buses are always late, casual, but quickly turned into just two young women immersing themselves in schoolgirl-like topics.

We laughed about my failed attempt to paint my kitchen cabinets sage green, and giggled some more about her new skincare routine she got from a 2010 YouTube video. We traded stories for what felt like hours. It felt like both of us needed a moment of wholesome connection — her as much as me. Every time one of us spoke, the other leaned in as if we were spilling the biggest secret known to man. The building blocks of our little world formed around us, shutting out everything else. Even if it was just for a little bit.

“You’re easy to talk to,” she said at one point.

“You too,” I told her.

The bus finally pulled up. She stood, slinging her bag over her shoulder, still smiling that warm, certain smile. She headed toward the bus doors.

“Wait,” I said. “One more thing.”

She turned, the smile softening into confusion.

“I’m sorry… do I know you?”

I didn’t answer. I just watched her disappear into the bus.

When the street was empty again, I reached into my bag and pulled out my wallet, which held a small photograph. Two girls, younger, arms thrown around each other’s shoulders, laughing like we had just discovered the funniest thing in the world.

We were both in it.