I can't believe this.

"I'm sorry-- did you just -- did you just say my friend in the photo?"

I purposefully emphasize the last part, because what the hell? Is she being payed to play games with me? She seems so sweet and kind though, there's no way that's possible.

She shrugs, commenting, "yes, dear. I remember that face, she was going to put the picture in the bucket and then took it out again and changed her mind. I wouldn't forget how nervous she was about it."

That. . . Doesn't make any sense. I might be the victim of some hilarious prank by Nina. Did she set me up?

"Did she give a name?" I just need to know that to confirm her insane story.

"No, unfortunately, she didn't. She was the one in the photo though, I'm certain of that."

"Did she. . . Say anything? About the other person in the photo?"

There I go again, with my ridiculous sense of hope. This could all be a misunderstanding, she might not be remembering things correctly. It might not have even been her. What would be the chances of me moving halfway across the country and her magically finding that memory so easily as if it was given to her? It's close to 0, I'll tell you that.

"About you? No, nothing dear."

Based on the depressing face I make at that moment, I assume, she gently adds, "I'm sorry. That isn't what you wanted to hear, was it?"

I shake my head and tell her, "I don't know what I expected."

. . . It still might be a game.

"Do you want to order something now?" She asks, switching from a caring human to a selling machine in a split second.

I try my best to smile, and I tell her, "thank you for the help! I have to go now."

She doesn't push, and instead takes the silver container back to its lonely spot. I make my way to the door, but then I almost run back to ask, "does she come here often?"

"Rarely. That was probably the fourth time I've seen her in all these years."

Nothing makes sense.

"How many years since the first time you saw her?"

"It's probably been about 4 years if I'm remembering correctly," she says with a subtle shrug.

She doesn't know how much that ridiculous detail means to me. I feel like jumping or laughing or yelling or crying or doing absolutely nothing.

This could all easily be part of my imagination. Or my past.

"I'm going to go now. . . Thank you!" I tell the woman who just wants to move on to whoever the customer behind me may be.

I've moved on too.

"Have a nice da—oh, it's her," she says suddenly.

"What?" And I turn around, facing wherever it is that her eyes seem to have focused on.

And there, in the far distance, is a familiar girl with dark brown eyes and dark brown hair that is walking terribly fast. Almost like she thinks she's been spotted.

She's wearing a black coat and black leggings and black shoes. She's in a rush, but somehow I can still catch details about her. A natural shade of pink lipstick and a silver piece of jewelry around her neck. Almost looks like the one I own.

The ones we got together all those years ago. The locket I have without my picture of her, stolen from me by someone. Stolen by her.

I do what any normal person would do in that situation . . .

I politely give the old woman who must be extremely tired of me at that point another thank you and even a tip, and then I run out of the diner myself. I hold tightly onto my bag, and even wrap my fist around my necklace as if it could leave me too.

I almost crash into people and cars, but I don't slow down a lot. Her hair is much longer than what I remember, and it gets carried around by the wind, becoming messier with every movement.

She's still several steps ahead of me, and when I think she can hear me, I say out loud, "Delilah!"

She flinches, and it hits her harder than the forceful wind around us. She trips at that moment, stumbling onto the hard ground within a second.

I take that moment to my advantage, and I finally catch up to her.

I stand right next to her, and when she's able to stand up by herself, she's barely able to look me in the eyes. I don't know if I can look at her either.

Because it's her. It's Delilah, alive and well in the same city and street as me. She looks both the same and completely different than the last time I saw her at school.

She carries herself with strength, and doesn't seem so childish anymore. She's older, and her appearance has adapted to the changing trends of today. Yet, is it possible that she's somehow gotten more beautiful? Because she has, and I don't know what to do.

She's probably grown a few inches taller. I once was much taller than her, but now she's about my height. Her dark brown hair actually has lighter highlights now, and new practices of eyeliner and blush are painted across her face in the right places.

Her neck was once the place where I could myself see putting my lips, and it's still as charming as it once was. What is time? Her full lips were ones I always imagined my own on, and they're still as enchanting as they once were. How is that possible? Her soft hands are still the same ones I once pictured holding all the time, and they're still as captivating as they once were. Is she even real?

All the emotions come back to me. Almost as if I haven't moved on.

Childhood crushes shouldn't feel this way, right? Well, childhood crushes are never supposed to make a sudden reappearance 4 years after they abandoned you either. There aren't many directions on where to go from here.

She knows that it's time to go though. She's frantic as she wordlessly looks at me, and seems to be taking in my own appearance. I'm whispering her name over and over again in the back of my mind, and I think I even say it out loud because at that second, she locks eyes with me.

And then she stops. She's ready to run. . . Again.

"I—"

I don't even know. She gives me the gift of waiting for me to let it out, but when she sees that I haven't, she sighs and gets ready to leave.

I can't lose this chance to just say something.

So, for the first time in four years, I'm able to direct my words to her and to her only. I tell her, "do you know how much I hate you?"

And then she runs.