In three years time, you're standing at the crossroads when you see her. She's got a brown leather bag hanging off one shoulder, and a pearly white ribbon around her neck. Her head bobs along to a song you cannot hear and you find yourself wondering what she sings in the shower these days - what she listens to before falling asleep. She used to joke that singing wasn't her forte, and that music wasn't her strength; but you loved her Sunday morning humming; her smile in your mouth, your fingers interlaced with hers.
She opens her eyes a little wider and then smiles and gives you a wave. There isn't much time for talking as you walk past each other and the green man begins to flash. You think her hair looks different, not the colour or the style, you remember she never dyed her hair, but the way it frames her face. She doesn't look so childlike when she says "hey" and offers you a grin.
And when she walks past, you can't help but turn back and watch. You wonder who listens to her talk about the stars at night, or who would listen to her never ending rant about religion and equality, who smiles when she talks about her theory regarding how the world was formed, or who carries her home when she's drunk. Three years ago, she told you she loved you. Today, you almost say it back.