Three Hundred Years

Three hundred years 

That’s how long I’ve waited to see her eyes again. A lifetime of lifetimes, filled with nothing but the endless stretch of days and nights, wondering if I’d ever find her. 

And now, here she is - right in front of me. Completely unaware of the weight of my gaze, of the centuries I’ve spent yearning for this very moment. 

She’s sitting in a small cafe, a table away from me, close enough that I can feel the warmth of her presence, yet impossibly distant, like a painting behind glass. She looks different now—modern, effortless. A big fur coat draped around her small frame, hair tied back in a messy ponytail, far removed from the flowing dresses and intricate lace she used to favour in the 18th century. I remember how she would carefully arrange her skirts, how the soft rustle of fabric would follow us through cobblestone streets. 

Her movements are also distinct —quicker, a touch more rushed, as if she’s always in a hurry. Back then, we had all the time in the world—or so we thought.

But some things never change, her voice, soft and familiar, reaches my ears as she orders - one espresso and a chocolate croissant. 

The same order, the same preferences. 

The memory of your voice, teasing and full of life, rushes back. 

The countless afternoons we spent in this city, lost in conversations, while you would sip your espresso, occasionally letting the froth tickle your nose, and giggle as I pretended not to notice.

“How can you drink that? It’s so bitter.” I’d tease, watching you revel in the simple pleasure of it.

“It’s an art,” you’d reply, your eyes sparkling, “You have to embrace the bitterness to appreciate the flavour.”

Even now, as I observe her, I’m struck by how your essence remains unchanged. It’s as if time has folded in on itself, allowing snippets of our past to bleed into this moment. 

She’s still here, in ways that transcend time.

But I can’t help but wonder if you feel it too—the familiarity of something long forgotten, lingering between us like a ghost.

Now as she sips her espresso, a small frown creeps onto her face as she scrolls through her phone. A fleeting worry shadows her expression—perhaps the weight of modern life pressing down on her, a stark contrast to the carefree days of our past. 

My mind drifts back to the simpler times. Back when the city smelled of burning wood and fresh bread, women moved through life as though they were part of an elaborate dance. You were no different—your bonnet always tied just so, your dress sweeping elegantly as you walked. 

Now, however, there are no formal letters, no carefully crafted words sent through messengers; instead, everything happens instantly. It’s strange to me, how in this world of instant gratification and quick connections, where you can reach someone in seconds, many seem disconnected from each other.

I recall the centuries that have passed. Three hundred years of solitude, of watching the world transform while I remained tethered to a love lost. I’ve witnessed empires rise and fall, the very fabric of society unravel and weave anew. I’ve walked through revolutions and marvelled at inventions that would have amazed you—carriages without horses, machines that capture moving images. Each moment, a reminder of the life I could have shared with you.

There were times I felt the ache of history heavy on my shoulders. I wish I could have shown you the beauty of this world as it changed, the joys and experiences that shaped me. 

The 1920s, for instance. Jazz blared from every street corner, women danced in sharp bobbed haircuts, and men strutted in tailored suits. I tried to fit in, to lose myself in the glittering lights and the endless parties.

I lived among people who seemed desperate to forget—forget the war, forget the old ways, forget anything that wasn’t glitz and glamour. 

There was the time I travelled to Paris in the 19th century when the city was alive with revolution and art. I wandered the streets of Montmartre and stood by the Seine watching artists sketch, painters capturing the light on the water. It should have been beautiful. It was beautiful. And yet, I was always searching, always looking for you in the faces of strangers passing by.

And it strikes me how as the world was changing, my love for you remained timeless.

In every era, there were moments I thought I could finally let go. I tried embracing the future, letting the past fade. But every time I began to feel like I belonged again, something would remind me—a perfume like the one you used to wear, the melody of a song you once hummed, a fleeting glance from someone who had your same soft eyes.

Around us, the café buzzes with laughter and conversation, the sunlight filters through the large windows, casting a gentle shadow across the worn wooden tables. I am still caught in the past, entwined with memories of you. Yet, despite this, I find a strange comfort in watching the new her.

Perhaps the differences between us now go beyond just the years that have passed. My memories are bound in the traditions of a time long gone, while she thrives in a world I can barely recognize. The differences between us pull us apart, like two pages in a book separated by a forgotten chapter.

But once, we walked hand in hand through the golden hues of late October.

I remember when it was crisp and vivid, and we had stolen away from the market—our footsteps muffled by the soft carpet of fallen leaves.

"Do you believe in fate?" you had asked, your voice almost lost in the autumn air.

I never answered you then.

Now, as I sit here across from her. I realize—fate was not what kept me going. Not entirely. It was something deeper, more desperate. Hope, longing, an unshakable belief that someday, I would find you again.

Yet here she is, so close I could almost reach out and touch you. But this moment feels different. It should feel like the fulfilment of every dream I’ve clung to across time, but instead, it feels hollow, like the echo of a song I can’t quite remember. The world has changed, and so have you.

I watch her laugh with your friends, the ease in her gestures, the spark of life in her eyes. She's living a life I was never part of, a life that doesn’t belong to me. I imagined this reunion as the closing of a chapter, the final piece of the story where everything falls back into place. But now, seeing her here, I know—it’s not. 

This is not a reunion. 

This is the end of a story that has stretched far beyond reason, beyond hope.

She gathers her things, slowly, unaware of the silent storm swirling inside me. The fur coat slides over her thin shoulders, the rustling sound too familiar, too foreign at the same time. Every movement feels like a ticking clock, each second pulling her further from me.

And I find myself wishing that you’ll stay, just for a breath longer.

But no—this isn’t a fairytale. She rises to your feet, laughter fading into the hum of the café, and suddenly the air feels too thick, too heavy, like the weight of all these years is pressing down on me at once. This is the moment I feared—the moment when I realize you’re not mine anymore, that you’ve never been.

And then—she stops.

My breath catches.

She turns, her eyes searching the room until they land on mine. In that heartbeat, everything falls away. There’s something there—a flicker of recognition, a glimmer of something long buried but not quite forgotten. My pulse quickens, my thoughts race, scrambling for what this means, for what’s about to happen.

She takes a step toward me, hesitation in her movements, uncertainty clouding her gaze.

The air between us crackles, heavy with unspoken words, with the weight of everything we were and everything we lost.

And then, her voice, soft but clear, pierces through the haze of centuries: “Hi, have we met before?".