Stranger

I see her every morning. Frozen to the bone I carefully navigate through the stream of people rushing to work, and she is always there. Right next to me. She moves determinedly towards her destination, her head down. I have been seeing her for three months now.

For the first few days, I tried to figure out why my attention has been drawn to her. She is tall, yes, but it's not that. Slender, okay, she is so fit. The long red hair, the cute galaxy of freckles strewn over her nose, the nobility of her attitude. The bright red coat. Although she never raises her head, I see a trace of a smile in the corners of her lips. This is a content woman. The satisfaction of simply being alive and breathing emanates from her every pore. She reminds me of someone I knew long ago...

"Hi, Jane." It's Nicholas, my co-worker. We meet every morning and walk together to our office. "Did you see the woman we've just passed? She is the spitting image of you! Are you sure you don't have a twin sister?"

All of a sudden it dawned on me. She looks like me! She's the dead spit of me! The only difference is that I don't smile. Right? Just yesterday, in the mirror, I noticed the trace of that nasty vertical line between the eyebrows. Uh, I hate it when I see it. To me it's always looked like a line that belongs to those tensed, indignant, eternally frustrated women. The line just gets embedded and there's nothing you can do about it. You may have the best of complexion, glow all the way you want, but that betraying stamp cancels all the positive qualities out. You look like you frown, even when you smile. I thought I was not prone to it. Most women get it earlier in their lives, even before turning thirty. But there it was, slowly settling down. The past several years finally started taking their toll on me.

"... said Hello, but she didn't greet me back. It's only when she looked up that I realized it's not you."

"Who? What are you talking about, Nicholas?"

"Wow, you're all ears this morning. About that woman, a stranger."

"Oh."

"You know how I realized it's not you? Though your faces are almost identical?"

"I have the feeling that the answer is coming my way."

"She is smiling."

"Funny. Thanks. Just the kind of motivation I needed this early."

"No, really, Jane. You and I have never been close, we don't share secrets and doubts, and that's why I'm embarrassed to say this, but I can't help it. You're not the same person anymore. What's happening?"

"I'd rather not talk about it. Like you said, we've never been close. Why change something that's been working just fine till now?"

The conversation died and we silently walked into the building.

***

First I went to the toilet to make sure that the betraying line was still there. It smirked at me in the mirror not exactly properly rinsed the evening before.

I picked up coffee from the cafeteria and headed to my desk. A new emotion was being born in me: envy. The heat I've never felt before, even when I was interacting with people who were much more successful, prettier or happier than me. I was always proud of myself for not knowing that feeling. Seems it has now decided it's time for a payback for all the years of blissful ignorance. I felt the shivers down my spine. Chill in my bones. Belly. Heart.

I envy that woman. I envy a stranger. I envy a nameless person. I envy her though I do not even know if she has enough money for a decent meal today. I envy her for the way she walks. For her poise. For the hair that hasn't lost its smoothness. For the smile not erased by life. I envy her because she is unquestionably happy. She knows how to stand up for herself. She did not dive into trouble she had to pay dearly for. I envy her for she probably hasn't rushed into making decisions just to gain crumbs of attention and approval. I envy her for she certainly knew how to set boundaries and call the timeout when it was due. She did not allow anyone to bring out the worst in her. She did not let herself stop believing in good. She did not turn her life into a charade and become a ghost version of herself. It was not her who was sitting at the porch in the evening, soundlessly crying, counting the customers at the store across the street in order to retain the common sense, take her mind off the agony.

It was not her who watched the last remnants of her integrity dance like dust against the strong wind. How the world that she once knew was split into hundreds of dots never to connect again. It is not her whose body and face began withering and she's outright powerless to do anything about it.

I envy her for that smile of hers.

That's why I stare at her in the morning. I wish I could see her low-spirited. At least once. Maybe that would make it easier for me to accept this person I have turned into.

To somehow prove to myself that other people are also going through similar misery.

I would like to see her shed the mask just for a split second.

She'll come around to it. Or not?! Perhaps some people do not experience defeat the same way. They're stronger.

No, that's not true. I am also strong, but every step I take becomes a telltale sign of my personal decadence. As if I have to get burnt to the end, bury myself in the ground and touch the rock bottom, feel it on my skin, in order to start moving forward.

I so envy her...

***

I'm done with my work. I'm rushing home, I have a task to complete. A plan.

I unlock the door, close it and lean on it. I love silence. The moment I enter my home the silence embraces me like a beloved friend. It warms my soul. However, lately it feels like it's leaving a small ballast on my shoulders as soon as the embrace fades away. It deafens me and there's a slight buzzing in my ears that goes on for the remainder of the day. I have not yet succumbed to distractions like TV and loud music. Simply because there's no use. It's not that I haven't tried. I even tried singing loudly for a while, but my voice is so hoarse these days, my lungs can't stand the pressure. And I lose my motivation.

Loneliness is my best friend. It absorbs every tear, dread, it inspires me and doesn't suck me dry. It recharges me.

The task. The plan.

I drop the bag next to my boots, swiftly take off my coat and head straight to the bathroom. I look at my reflection in the mirror. I come closer and press my nose against cold glass. I look into my eyes. I start getting lost in the gaze and my own thoughts. These are the eyes of the girl who was once carefree. The girl who dreamed big and loved every flower in the backyard. The one whose Grandpa sang her songs while accompanying her to school. The one who used to lie next to her grandparents' feet when it was cold, while they watched TV. Her Grandma would bring her a hot tile right off the stove to keep her warm, tucked her in, and she would squeeze even more. That girl was in the safest haven on Earth. Even then she knew she never wanted to grow up. She loved when her Grandma prepared milk with caramelized sugar to soothe her sore throat.

Now all the heaters, milk and tea in the world wouldn't help. It hurts either way. Silence is healing, but only when it follows noise. When silence comes after silence, it is suffocating. It becomes too much, a burden.

The mirror becomes blurred. Smeared with tears.

How did you end up like this? What would a girl you once were say if she saw you now? She would be depressed and lost, that's for sure. She would ask you what the matter was and what's with the smile. She would want to know where the joy of waking up again and having the world at your feet was gone. That little girl would give you a nice, hardcover notebook and a few colored pens so that you can journal, draw, write down your favorite lyrics... What would you say to her? How would you explain the despair on your face?

The task. The plan. I come into the bathroom with the goal on my mind. I don't want to think about the little "me" right now.

I press my index finger against the line between my eyebrows. I start to rub. If I'm persistent enough, I'll make it go away. I don't need this obvious reminder of failure and stress. I'll rub it every day and everything will be fine soon. It has to be.

The second part of the plan ... I'll talk to my doppelgänger. If it wasn't for her, I wouldn't even notice what was happening to me, I wouldn't slow down and question my life. I wouldn't know that I had enough. There is another way. I want the old "me" back. No, the new one, but somehow still the old "me".

That night I dreamed of the field of poppies near the train station. There was a group of little girls in the field. They all had the same face. My face. All of them smiled. Except for one. I approached her and ran my fingers across her lips. To wipe the pain off her face. To make her smile. And I did it. She started to smile, but suddenly the rest of her face began to dry out like mortar, crumble like a dilapidated wall and it collapsed. All the pieces fell off except for the smile in the corners of her lips. It remained intact. I woke up screaming.

***

The old train station. This is where I see her every morning. There she was, her head down, a smile dancing on her lips. I'm heading over to her. It's winter, everything is swallowed by neutral, washed-out shades, but something catches my eye. It just can't be. She has the poppy stuck in her hairpin. The red color makes such a contrast and all of a sudden I feel dizzy. Where did it come from? I know that poppies can keep the leaves when it's cold, but the flowers? No, it must be a cheap, fake copy. Yet, I've seen so many poppies in my childhood that I could swear it's real ...

"Excuse me..."

She keeps walking, she does not hear me. I approach her and grab her by the shoulder. "Excuse me, I just wanted to ask you something..."

She turns her head and looks up. I see her eyes for the very first time. Piercing, blue, full of life and twinkle. She is just looking at me, silently.

"I wanted to ask you where you got the poppy this time of year?"

"Oh, I picked it up in that little field next to the station. Would you like me to show you? I can spare some time."

I do not want to explain that I grew up playing in that field. I follow her. Not a word is exchanged.

When we got to the edge of the field, I freeze. Hundreds of blood-red poppies with yellow fluffy crowns in the middle are spread out all over the field. A thought crosses my mind: maybe I did not wake up from the last night's dream.

"Wh... when did this happen?"

"I don't get it. They're here every day. I grew up in this place and it's always been like this. I didn't know they were not supposed to bloom in winter. Poppies are my favorite. I come here every afternoon just to watch them. I don't run through the field anymore, but I love watching them. They remind me of my childhood."

"But the poppies don't bloom in winter. Blooming takes place in May or June and they die soon after flowering."

"Well that's strange. I always thought they were timeless. I never wondered about them not wilting. I fell in love with them since I was a kid and just chose to believe they were eternal."

"Believe... How did you manage to keep the smile?"

There is a second when the smile turns into a small frown, but she quickly gathers herself and replies: "The same as with poppies. While the other aspects of life and soul fall to pieces, the smile stays. Just like the poppies. I have the right to believe in something, to keep at least one piece, do I?"

And just like that, she turns and walks away.

With trembling fingers I fumble in my purse for a cell phone and dial my boss's number. I explain that I feel a bit under the weather and that I need a day off. I stay here several minutes more to soak up the magnificence of poppies. I can't recall the moment I stopped noticing and wearing bright colors, but I realize that I miss them a lot.

I run to my house, unlock the door, and go straight to the bathroom, what with my grey coat and the purse still over my shoulder. I feel sick to my stomach and have to focus hard to prevent the vomiting. I need some kind of support. I put my hands on both sides of the mirror and lower my head. The hair is all over my face. I take a few deep breaths. When I feel calm a little, I look at my reflection.

A poppy in full bloom rests behind my right ear. In the corners of my lips, the smile is lurking. I run my moist fingers over the skin between the eyebrows. Nothing. No lines. My eyes glare with surreal blue and vividness as if I had just got a drip and was brought back to life. The hardcover notebook and the red colored pen drop out of my purse.

***

I've never seen the stranger again.

Sometimes I look myself in the mirror and see my lips frowning. I feel the hand grabbing me by my shoulder, as if stopping me. Then the person in the mirror starts the mantra: "Believe... I have the right to keep at least one piece..." And the smile begins to caress my lips.

Every afternoon I go and watch the poppies. They are still there, unfalteringly defying the seasons, weather conditions and the shoe soles treading over them. Wearing the bright red coat I've recently bought, I greet them and run through the field cheerfully. I touch them and, with my Grandpa's song ringing through my ears, I keep walking. Defiantly. The only way I know how.