Half of me

Collision

Some stories start with "once upon a time." Mine starts with a loud crash.

Before I tell you the rest — and you'll see there's a lot more to tell — I need you to know one thing: I never thought the morning my life changed would feel so... normal. No dramatic music. No premonition. Just me, running late as always, trying to get to a meeting that, at the time, I thought was just another meeting.

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It was eight forty-seven in the morning when I left the house. I know the exact time because I checked my phone so many times before even starting the car that I nearly gave myself a neck cramp, as if watching the minutes would make them move slower.

The meeting was at nine-thirty, and even with traffic I figured I was leaving with time to spare — though honestly, I don't know why I keep doing that math, because it never works out.

I was thinking about everything except the road — the ring I was still wearing, which still felt strange, like a promise I hadn't quite learned how to wear yet; the project I was heading to the meeting for; the list of things I had to do before the weekend. I was right in the middle of that thought, somewhere between "don't forget to text your mom back" and "need gas," when the reason I clearly should have left the house earlier made itself known.

I won't pretend I remember everything clearly. I remember the sound first — a sharp thud, metal against metal, louder than anything I'd ever heard. I remember my hands gripping the wheel with a strength I didn't know I had. I remember one second — just one — where everything went silent, like the air itself was waiting to find out if I was okay.

I was. Physically, at least. A scare, a bruise on my shoulder from the seatbelt, my heart racing so fast it took minutes to realize I'd already stopped moving, and all I could think was: "Why, of all days, today, when I hate driving, did I think it was a good idea to take the car, when I could just have taken the subway."

I got out of the car with my legs shaking more than I'd like to admit. The other car was stopped a few meters ahead, pulled up against the curb, its front end dented. And it was there, looking at that car, that I realized the morning still had one more surprise in store.

Because the guy who stepped out of it — hand in his hair, phone already glued to his ear, suit slightly crooked like he'd gotten dressed in a hurry — wasn't a stranger.

I knew that face. Knew it in a way you don't forget, no matter how many years pass, no matter how hard you try. Seven years hadn't been enough to erase that face from my head, and there he was, a few feet away from me, looking like someone who'd just seen a ghost and decided to pretend he hadn't.

Honestly, in that moment, I didn't even know what to think. All I know is my body reacted before my brain had time to process anything at all. A knot in my stomach. A stupid urge to laugh. An even more stupid urge to cry.

I took a step toward him. I was going to say something — I don't even know what, maybe just his name, maybe an "is that really you?" — but he looked at me for half a second, maybe a full second, and then looked away, like I was just another car on the road, just another unremarkable accident in his morning.

And he left.

Just like that, nothing more. He got in his car, drove off before we'd even exchanged a single word, before finding out if I was okay, before doing anything a normal person would do after hitting someone else's car.

I stood there in the middle of the street, my heart still pounding, but now for a completely different reason than the shock of the accident.

If you'd asked me in that moment what I felt, I would have told you it was anger. Just anger. But if you're anything like me, you already know things are never that simple.

I'll tell you everything. I promise. But first I need you to understand how I ended up here, like this.