Fragments of Us

Autumn, 1991. Ottawa.

I hadn’t seen Sophia in months, and it felt like a lifetime. We’d known each other through our families—Slovenian immigrants who had somehow found each other in the maze of life. I was visiting for the weekend, a brief escape from the hustle of Montreal. We were planning to catch a film and maybe hit a few clubs. But before any of that, Sophia had to stop by Bouclair, where she worked part-time. I waited outside the store, hands buried deep in my pockets, when I first saw her.

Kaitlin.

She stood by the door, her jet-black hair falling in messy waves around her face, dressed in a faded denim jacket and a loose skirt. A heady, free-spirited vibe emanated from her. When she turned, her eyes caught mine. There was something there—recognition, curiosity, a spark. She was half Croatian, half French Canadian, and as soon as she heard I was from Montreal, she practically jumped at the chance to chat. She’d be studying there in a year, she told me, and she was thrilled to meet someone from the city.

I didn’t know it at the time, but she and Sophia worked together at Bouclair. They were both students, part-timers, and their bond was immediately clear when Kaitlin mentioned Sophia’s name. That connection—shared experiences and similar paths—would tie us together in ways I didn’t understand then.

In the months that followed, I found myself visiting Ottawa more often, always under the pretext of seeing Sophia. But each time I came, Kaitlin seemed to be there. We exchanged glances, laughs, and shared the same spaces. Each time, the tension between us grew. I never thought anything would come of it, but then, one day, she called me out of the blue in spring 1992. She was coming to Montreal to check out apartments and register at Concordia. She asked if I could show her around. I agreed.

The day was perfect. We wandered the streets of Montreal, talking about everything and nothing. There was an ease between us, but I could feel something more underneath it. When it came time to part, I walked her to her car. The city lights were soft against the evening sky, and the air felt heavy with possibilities. And then, without saying a word, we kissed.

It wasn’t a peck. It wasn’t even a tentative first kiss. It was a passionate kiss, filled with a sense of urgency, as if we both knew this moment might change everything. Her lips were soft, but there was a fire to it. We both pulled away, breathless, unsure of what to say. But nothing needed to be said. I didn’t want to analyse it. I didn’t want to overthink it. We simply let it be.

Neither of us ever discussed that kiss. And yet, after it, we began seeing each other more often. Our dates were never officially declared. Our relationship was never defined. We would meet in secret, slipping into the spaces between reality and desire. Sometimes, it felt like it was the only thing we were sure of. But even as we got closer, there was always something off. She would be affectionate one moment and then shut me out the next.

Weeks later, something strange began to happen. She started acting distant. At shops or cafés, she would suddenly pretend not to speak French at all. I knew she was fluent—she’d spoken French with her mother, and I’d heard her use it before. I asked her about it once, and she simply shrugged, almost dismissive, like it was no big deal. “You know how it is,” she said, as though it was a silly thing to mention.

But I couldn’t help but feel confused. It felt like she was hiding a part of herself. Something was missing, and I couldn’t figure out what it was.

Then, one night, at a party with her flatmates, she snapped.

“Why do you have to be such a walking cliché?” she spat, her voice sharp. “Women’s group meetings, really? Freshman year, is that your thing?”

Her words stung. I hadn’t expected it—an offhand comment that cut deeper than I was ready for. “What’s wrong with that?” I asked, trying to hold onto my composure. “It’s something I care about.”

She rolled her eyes. “You don’t think that’s the most predictable thing ever? Every first-year girl decides to join a women’s group. It’s all so cliché.”

I tried to explain, but the words felt hollow. She had an edge to her now, a bitterness that wasn’t there before. It hurt more than I let on, but I told myself it didn’t matter. It wasn’t worth fighting over.

And then, without warning, she vanished.

No calls. No messages. I tried to reach her, but she wouldn’t answer. And when I tried to move on, she reappeared. It was a chance encounter at a women’s group meeting. She acted shocked to see me, but within minutes, her mood shifted again, her face twisting into anger.

“You’re a selfish, inconsiderate bitch!” she screamed. “No one likes you!”

I didn’t know how to react. There was no explanation, no sense to it. She had cut me off, and then, just like that, tore me down in front of everyone. It hurt, deep. It left me hollow.

For the next year and a half, I did my best to avoid her. And then, one day, she appeared again. This time, she rented an apartment next door to an old friend of mine from high school. We saw each other at a party. She was different—warm, kind, almost sweet. We ended up back at her place, and what followed was passionate. But the moment it was over, she began accusing me of stealing her Doors CD.

I was stunned. Why would I want her CD? My brother had every album.

“I don’t have it!” I shouted. "Why the fuck would I want your CD?" My car only has a tape deck."

Her eyes narrowed. “You're lying! You're a pathological liar!”

I couldn’t take it anymore. I bolted out of there, leaving behind the ring I had removed so I wouldn’t hurt her during sex.

The ring was important to me. It had been crafted by a cousin who was a goldsmith. But when I tried to get it back, she insisted she didn’t have it. I tried contacting her, but she wouldn’t respond.

Weeks turned into months, and I eventually gave up.

I graduated and left Montreal, but I couldn’t quite forget about her—or that damn ring.

Summer, 2000. I visited Montreal again, and there she was, standing on a street corner. We had lunch together as though no time had passed. She had changed, but in subtle ways. Her health had started to fade, but she was still thriving in her studies, a different woman than the one I had known. We exchanged email addresses, but life moved on, and we never actually wrote to each other.

Kaitlin had always been open about her health. Her heart condition, which had been diagnosed when she was just a child, was something that hovered over her life like a dark cloud. It was a congenital defect—a rare and severe form of heart disease that, in the early years, doctors had told her would shorten her life. They predicted she'd live to be nine, then sixteen, then twenty-one. But somehow, she defied all odds, living far beyond what anyone could have expected. She wore her condition like a badge of honour, a reminder that every day could be her last, and yet she kept pushing forward.

It had always been a part of her identity, something that influenced everything she did—her desire to live recklessly, to connect deeply but never permanently, to keep people at arm’s length. She was always in motion, moving from one thing to the next, never staying in one place for too long. I never knew how to handle it—her constant reminder of fragility, her flirtation with death, her need for distance even as she craved closeness.

Years later, when Facebook became a thing, I received a friend request. At first, I didn’t recognise her. She had changed her name so I had no idea who it was. Supposedly, she had wanted it to sound more “ethnic,” reflecting her desire to distance herself from everything she had known. She’d cut ties with all our old acquaintances, and from her posts, I saw that she was well-respected, even revered. Her life seemed ordered, but she had distanced herself from her family, her past.

Then, in December 2023, I received a message from her. She wanted to video chat. I agreed. It was one of the longest and most emotional conversations we’d ever had. She asked for my home address. I thought it was odd, but I gave it to her.

Christmas arrived. In the post, I found a card from her, handwritten in a messy scrawl. Inside, taped to the card, was the gold ring I had left behind all those years ago.

The note inside read: “You gave this to me when we were still so young, and I cherished it all these years. I thought of you often, but you never wanted me back.”

I stared at the card for a long time, feeling a strange weight in my chest. Was this how she truly remembered it? Or was it just another story she had decided to tell herself, a more palatable version of our past?

Then came the real twist. The following spring, I stumbled across an obituary online. Kaitlin had passed away. The note, the ring, and the strange message—all seemed to take on a new weight.

Her health had deteriorated for years, but what struck me was the absence of her family’s name. She had died alone. I wondered—had she really cherished me all this time? Or had she merely left behind a fragment of her past that she could never let go of, even as she built a life completely separate from it?

I keep the ring now, but I wonder if I should have kept the mystery instead.