Your Story

by Lynn Lambert

          This is your story.
          And you are happy, because you always wanted to read about yourself.
          But doubts are forming in your head.
          Why would this random author write about me? you ask yourself. You don’t know. It doesn’t really matter, anyways.
          You didn’t always live here. A long time ago, you lived somewhere far away. How far, you don’t know. It’s not important.
          All you know is you were happy there. You lived comfortably, in a house that was not big, and not small. You weren’t popular, but you weren’t friendless, either. There were people you loved, and people who loved you. You were content.
          Until one day, you saw that man. He was just walking down the street. You don’t know why you noticed him, exactly. Maybe it was the perfectly styled hair or the strong jawline or the aura of confidence. Whatever it was, you noticed, and you remembered.
          The next day, you saw him again. You were in the same place at the same time, and he was there again. This time, you saw the silk button-down shirt and carefully pressed slacks. Something inside you deflated.
          No chance, you thought, unable to tear your eyes away from his perfect form. No chance. Then he rounded the corner and was gone.
          This was your life for a week. Then, on Sunday, when you went to your favorite café for brunch, he was there. You saw him and stared, wondering why he was there alone. He was sitting in a booth, his dark hair perfectly messy, his perfect form, dressed in a gray hoodie and jeans, slumped in the leathery seat, the spot across from him gapingly empty. You looked around. There were no other empty seats, and no one else you recognized. Hesitantly, you approached the booth. 

          “Hello?” you asked. Your voice came out higher-pitched than normal. The man jumped, then smiled politely at you.

          “Can I help you?” he asked. 

          “May I… there aren’t any other empty seats…” you stuttered. He glanced around, then laughed. 

          “There aren’t. Feel free,” he replied, gesturing to the seat. His voice was rich and sonorous, drawing you into these dangerous waters even further. You sat and pulled a menu out of the small rack next to the window, carefully not looking at the man. 

          “Thank you,” you said. 

          “Not a problem,” he replied. You chatted, exchanging names and job titles and, after you both had eaten, phone numbers. Later that day, he texted you, and you continued your conversations, slowly learning more and more about each other.
           One day, he invited you to his house. It was a small, clean place, not at all indicative of the designer clothes and top-of-the-line phone he owned. You asked him about it. 

          “Call me girly,” he answered, “but I just can’t resist some of these things. I try to keep it simple, but I gotta say, the iPhone 6 broke my self-control knob.” You laughed and moved on. A week later, you invited him to your place. You frantically cleaned before he arrived, but the humble abode retained its messiness. When he appeared, you mumbled apologies, but he waved them off with a laugh, saying that his house was in much worse state and that your place was beautiful. The way he said that implied that the compliment ran deeper, and you blushed.
          For a few weeks, the man and you got to know each other. Slowly, you learned that he had come from a place maybe two hours away. He said it was a dry, boring place, and that he was glad to be gone. There was a strange, unfamiliar anger in his eyes as he said that, and you were quick to drop the subject.
          A few days after the “backstory incident,” as you called it, you and the man met at the café for brunch again. You spent a good hour eating and talking happily, and at the end of it, before you parted at the street corner, he leaned over and kissed you.
          Just once.
          Just a little moment of perfection, a moment where you held the secrets of the universe in your grasp.
          Then he pulled back, smiled sadly, and left.
          You never saw him again.
          Later that night, when you tried to call him, he didn’t pick up. Confused- he always answered your calls- you tried again, and again. Still, there was nothing. You tried texting him. The message didn’t send. You called his workplace, thinking maybe he’d gotten stuck at work and his phone had died. They said they had no employees with his name, and they had never seen someone matching his description. You tried number after number. None of them had ever heard of him. You lost hope. He was gone- disappeared.
          The next day, the people in suits came. At first there were only two, hovering outside your front door all day. Afraid, you packed a small bag and snuck out the back. The suited people followed. You got in your car and drove. So did the suited people. On the highway, more cars with more people in suits inside joined the first ones. You drove and drove, faster and faster, trying to lose the hoards of suited people following you. For hours and miles, uncountable hours and miles, you drove. Then, after a long time, they vanished. Still afraid, you kept driving. Finally, your reached this place. You found a new home, a new job, a new life. But you never forgot the people in suits, the frantic chase, the terror, the love, the man, the kiss.
          The moments borrowed from a life extraordinary and placed in a life ordinary. And you never forgot the thing that started it all; the glimpse of the man who changed your world.
          This was your story.
          And you are happy, because you always wanted to read about yourself.


Author Biography: Lynn Lambert is a student at Haverford Middle
School. She has plans to become a physicist. In addition to writing, she
spends her free time reading, dancing, and immersing herself in peculiar
scientific topics, which inspire her various stories.

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