Wait For Me

You see her, just once - through the grimy tram window, her face flickering in the faint glow of a dream you barely remember. It’s a ghost of a memory, lingering in the cobwebbed corners of your mind, whispering something fragile, something sacred. A Japanese girl, standing in the quiet corners of your youth, saying, “Wait for me.” Her voice was soft, like moth wings brushing against a paper lantern. But it wasn’t Japan. Hell, it wasn’t anywhere. Just a dream – a hazy fragment from when you were still a shy little mouse, scurrying through a Paris hostel. Back then, you couldn’t even brave the communal showers, clutching your towel like a shield against the terrifying vastness of strangers.

And yet, she was there, wasn’t she? A phantom promise wrapped in a face you were too scared to meet. You were too much of a coward to ask what it all meant, so you let it slip away, packing it into the depths of your memory alongside the ache of that foreign city and the mildew stink of unwashed tiles.

Fast forward – years and lifetimes later – and you’re not that mouse anymore. Oh no, now you’re the firecracker of Frankfurt’s Taunusstrasse, all bite and bravado, running wild in the red-light district. You’re the queen of bad decisions, ruling over a crumbling kingdom of neon lights and cigarette smoke. Smirks and sass become your armor, and reckless abandon fuels the fire. But deep down, you know – you fucking know – it’s just a cover.

And the girl you get close to? Not her. Not even close. Another Japanese girl, sure, but with crooked teeth and eyes heavy with paranoia. She’s a broken bird with clipped wings, clinging to you like you’re her salvation, like she doesn’t know you’re just as fucked up as she is. You try to save her, at first, because that’s what you do when you’re young and stupid and still think the world owes you redemption. But you can’t save her. You can’t even save yourself.

You leave. Of course, you leave. That’s the only thing you’re good at – slipping through cracks, running before the weight of it all drags you down. And she? She becomes another name you can’t say out loud without tasting regret.

And then today – today of all days – there she is. The girl from your dream. Not the broken one, not the memory of broken promises, but her. Her. Gliding past in that tram, her gaze cutting through the filthy glass like she’s always known you’d be here, like she’s always known you’d be waiting. Your breath catches, your pulse races, and you feel the years collapse into this single, fragile moment.

You chase her. Of course, you chase her. Desperation surges through your veins as the tram slides into Royal Park. You sprint, weaving through strangers and puddles, your heart pounding in your ears. The park smells like wet leaves and missed chances, but you don’t care. You race to the other side, the promise of her pulling you forward, but when you get there – nothing.

Too late. It’s always been too late.

The girl. The life. The dream. Gone. Just like they always were. You stand there, soaked in sweat and bitter realization, your chest heaving as the city swallows her whole.

Later, when the sting has dulled, you tell the story to a stranger over cheap wine, laughing bitterly at how memory turns us all into fools. “It’s just a story,” you say, waving it off like a cigarette’s last puff. But even as you laugh, the ache stays. She stays.

Because some ghosts aren’t meant to leave. Some linger, woven into the marrow of your bones, whispering promises you’ll never understand. And maybe that’s the worst of it. Or maybe it’s the best. You’ll never know. You never really wanted to.