She knew that she was finally over him. Although it was a struggle getting on with life following their sudden separation, she surprised even herself when one morning, not long after, she awoke and realized that she no longer remembered what he looked like, no longer heard his voice in her head, no longer saw him in her dreams.

Perhaps it was true, she thought, that people don't really get over someone, as though it were some task consciously to be worked at: it simply happened, without premeditation or desire, and all that one could really do in the meantime was wait for its coming.

That was why she wondered how, even after so long, she still found herself taking second glances at old, familiar corners they used to visit, at coffeeshops, restaurants, park benches, wondering if the man seated with his back to her was him, her heart racing at the faintest resemblance of hair, or voice, or gait, fighting the impulse to call out his name, afraid that if she did, the man would look back.

It was a mere trick of the mind, she thought. A mere glitch of the heart.

She understood then what it was that the poet meant when he wrote: he olvidado tu amor y sin embargo, te adivino detrás de todas las ventanas. We forget loves, indeed, yet still, we seem to glimpse them behind every window. This frightened her, because at that moment of sober recognition, she realized that the more she tried to forget him, the more she found herself remembering. And that, hopelessly, she found that she could not forget. . . .

* * *

It was bound to happen at some point or another, she thought, as she got out of the car, in front of the restaurant where they were all supposed to meet. The invitations were sent out almost a week ago, personally and over the internet, and while she had debated long and hard on whether to attend or not, she thought that she would be giving in to her weakness if she chose not to come. How bad could it be, she reasoned. So he was going to be there. . . . So she was going to see him. . . . So they haven't seen each other in six months. . . . She knew she had to face her ghosts.

She walked briskly across the parking lot, half-lit from the neon of the restaurants above. Her heart started to beat faster in anticipation, coming up the steps at last, getting into the elevator. She pressed “5” and the door whizzed shut. The elevator lurched upward, and alone, she looked at her reflection on the dull aluminum, stained with fingerprints and grease, feeling half stupid and half dreamy at the absurdity of the evening. Or perhaps, she thought, it was all just in her head.

She walked into the restaurant, and searched the sea of faces for her friends— his friends also, by time and affinity— but tonight, they were hers. It had been a while since they had all last seen one another, and while some had suggested not to invite him to the dinner altogether, they knew that he had as much right to be there as she did; friends though they were, they did not want to take sides. Not that it really mattered to her whose side they were on, because she knew that it was only her side that mattered, and his, and nobody else’s. This was her issue, not theirs. Not even his, she thought. He was gone for too long to make the issue remotely his own.

She found them seated by the terrazza. A spontaneous burst of welcome greeted her, because she was the last to arrive. In the adrenalin of the moment, she hardly noticed him smile at her, sitting at the corner of the table. She smiled back, absent-mindedly, pretending distraction, feigning civility. Thank God, she thought, she wasn’t the type to give friends buzzes on the cheek. She finally sat herself down, three seats away from him, and got straight into the thick of the conversation, trying hard not to think of the fact that he existed, again, all flesh and blood and heart of him, merely three seats away.

The drinks and the food flowed freely through the evening, as it always would in the company of friends. She was amazed at how everyone else was carrying on with the festivities, without ever a hint of awkwardness or tension. It was perhaps an art that they had perfected as unwitting spectators in the sometimes sordid drama that was their life. She, of course, did not speak to him directly, and neither did he, to her. But it was not an awkward sort of obliviousness; it was neither angry nor bitter. It was, in fact, a respectful unawareness— maybe even a reverential attempt at forgetting— certainly, one borne of an acknowledgement of a finished past, or a tired present.

Even then, as he launched into his usual routine of jokes and commentary, she knew that she could not get mad at him for his leaving, even after the silence and the half-uttered explanations; even when he appeared so normal and unaffected, so getting-on with his life. She had so many questions, yes, but tonight, she did not know exactly what to ask or where to begin, or whether she wanted to ask them at all; only she knew what she felt. The feeling descended upon her like a heavy blanket, and she knew that it was resigned regret, dull yet overwhelming.

Now and then, between lulls and silences, through the ubiquitous beat of the bass and the music, she would notice his laughter, and she knew that he was still the same old person, thankfully, and unfortunately.

At last, they called for the bill, and the waiter came to make an accounting. When they got up from the table, it was nearly midnight, and they all parted ways at the restaurant’s entrance, with the usual hugs and handshakes. But he took his leave, by going away first, trying perhaps to save everyone from the awkwardness of separation.

And just like that, he was gone again, without so much as an acknowledgement of her existence. Of course, she noticed the haste at which he took his leave, but she chose not to be affected. She did not follow him to the elevator with her eyes. She did not fall silent or heave a sigh of regret or even of relief at his leaving. No. And while there suddenly surged an impulse to run after him, tug on his sleeve one last time, ask him whether everything was alright, she resisted, bent on putting up a face of frankness and resolve. She did not want anyone to know that he still mattered, if only in her memory.

Walking finally back to her car, alone again after a long day of work and worry, she felt the cold nip of wind blowing, colder, it seemed, than she had ever felt before. Alone with herself on that burdened walk of solitude and independence, she allowed some moments of vulnerability, and decided, quite consciously, that she loved him still, somehow, in those unvisited places of her heart. She loved him directly, without complexities or pride, without wanting to do anything more, without wanting to start the cycle again.

She reached her car at last, and fished for the keys from her purse. She was about to turn the lock, when someone called out her name. She knew who it was, of course, the inflection of his voice giving him away, and when she turned around, he was already standing two feet in front of her.

“Hey,” she said awkwardly, trying not to look at him.

He fumbled for words, trying to be natural. She tried to look impatient, formal, detached. “What’s up?” she asked, looking up at him, finally.

“Um. . . . just wanted to say good-bye, actually,” he answered. “It was too weird in there.”

She gave out a disgusted groan. “Yeah, well,” she said, looking away.

“I wish we could talk sometime soon,” he said, gravely, cutting her off in mid-sentence.

“If you want to,” she said with a shrug, letting the proposal hang stale in the air, a hint of disappointment in her expression.

“Well, that’s all, really,” he said finally, half-hoping that she would say something more.

But all she said was, “Alright.”

“Anyway, it was nice seeing you,” he said, embarrassed.

“You too,” she answered, and from her tone, it was difficult to tell whether she was serious or she was sarcastic.

He took some steps back, turned around, and walked away.

She got into her car without seeing where he was going. She fastened her seatbelt, and started the engine, turned on the air-conditioner, then set the radio. She eased out of the parking slot, and headed towards the exit. Gripping the steering wheel tight, she finally noticed his car, so familiar by now, waiting some distance from the road, its engine running, its taillights red, but still unmoving. She passed it without stopping, surrendered her parking ticket, exited the carpark, onto the road and into the traffic. For a moment, she took a glance back at her rear-view mirror to see if he was still there, parked, and he was. She turned up the volume of her radio, and at that instant, realized that she felt absolutely nothing at all.