The Girl Who Looks Like Me

She’s still there — hands folded, waiting for me by the window, eyes fixed on something I stopped believing in. I visit her sometimes when the night feels too long, when my reflection starts to look a little too much like hers. I envy the way she waits without bitterness. Sometimes, I sit beside her, and we both look up, pretending we’re still the same person. I tell her about the years that came after the things we both thought we’d be spared from. She listens — patient, still tracing raindrops on the glass like they might spell out a different ending. There’s something sacred about her stillness. She doesn’t rush the healing. She doesn’t fear the waiting. Before I leave, I always tell her, "You can come inside now." But she just smiles, and says, "Not yet." And somehow, that hurts less than it used to. _ngcali writes_