I saw her again, standing on the platform. Someone called out her name, and I saw her turn so familiarly. Her face seemed strange, different. Then I remembered, this is what she does. She changes. I had been thinking of her as a picture in a frame, when she really was a windowpane streaked with one rain one day, soaked with warm sunrays the next. She was never one thing. I want to run up to her and tell her it’s okay if she’s a stranger, and she was never just about me. These clichés strike me as right, but divorced from their trials and tribulations. Plus she will be looking at me to prove that I mean what they say.

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