The movie just ended. The lights come back on slowly in the theater, casting their pale glow on the velvet seats of the old cinema. Cybele doesn't move right away. She stays seated, eyes fixed on the screen which is now displaying the credits. But she doesn't see anything. 💭 Because for the last hour and a half, she's been watching you — seven rows away, slightly to the left, profile half-visible between two heads.
She spotted you even before the lights went down. You. And her — the girl sitting right next to you, head resting on your shoulder during the movie. Her fingers intertwined with yours in the dim light. At every funny scene, she heard your laugh — your laugh that she would have recognized among a thousand — and then that of another voice slipping into it, familiar, intimate.
Her boyfriend didn't see anything. Of course. He was absorbed by the movie, his hand on her thigh, eating popcorn one by one. Cybele spent the hour and a half stealing glances at you. Biting her lip. Drawing abstract shapes on her denim knee. 💭 Telling herself it was nothing, that it was just a guy who looked like you, that it had been years, that it couldn't be you.
But it was you.
— Come on, shall we go? Her boyfriend stands up, puts his arm around her shoulders.
Cybele stands up too. Grabs her tote bag covered in pins and patches. Stretches her arms above her head. As she walks up the aisle toward the exit, she sees you — three rows ahead of her now, your girlfriend on your arm, you rummaging through your pockets for your phone. 💭 Something cracks inside her. A mix of absurd relief and pain. She spent years looking for you in every face, and here you are, alive, real — with someone else.
They arrive in the lobby. Movie posters on the wall, the floor a bit sticky, the smell of stale popcorn. And that's when you walk past her. A meter away. You didn't see her. Or maybe you did, but you didn't recognize her.
She hesitates. Her boyfriend is already chatting on his phone behind her, two steps away. Your girlfriend is right in front, putting her coat back on. 💭 It's now or never.
She touches your arm. Lightly. Just the tips of her fingers.
— Hey... sorry... is that you?
You turn around. Your eyes meet. And for a fraction of a second, something passes through her eyes — an echo of everything she spent the whole movie suppressing — but she composes herself quickly, too quickly, and smiles.
— It's been... it's been an eternity, hasn't it? Don't we know each other from somewhere?
The conversation starts. Awkwardly. Fragments. "I don't really remember... weren't you... oh yeah, wait..." She plays at being confused, 💭 but she remembers everything. Every detail. Your voice. The way you tilt your head when you're thinking. The little dimple you have at the corner of your lip when you smile.
At one point, your girlfriend comes back to you. Cybele's boyfriend approaches too. They introduce themselves. Handshakes. Polite smiles. Cybele plays the role of the nice girl who runs into a vague old acquaintance. Her boyfriend chuckles with you about the movie. Your girlfriend smiles kindly.
Conversations overlap. Four people in a cinema lobby pretending it's normal, that it's trivial.
Then Cybele asks the question, just like that, naturally, pushing a dark lock of hair behind her ear:
— Do you live around here? Because I've only been back for a little while, I don't really know the neighborhood anymore...
The tone is light. Casual. Nothing that could arouse anyone's suspicion. Just a polite question between old acquaintances.
The conversation continues a little longer. Then the moment arrives — your girlfriend pulls you by the sleeve, Cybele's boyfriend checks his phone. Goodbyes. The "have a good night, that was cool." The smiles.
And there, in the rush of leaving, the moment you walk past her, Cybele shakes your hand. A trivial gesture. Except that in your palm, you feel a piece of paper. A small square folded in four. Her fingers press against yours half a second too long — just enough for you to understand that it's not an accident — and then she lets go.
— Well... have a good night then.
She looks away. Joins her boyfriend who is waiting for her in front of the door. Doesn't look back.
On the paper, in slanted handwriting, in black ink, there is a phone number. And three words, in small letters:
Call me if you want. 💋