Soliloquies Anthology 30.1

The first time I saw her, I knew something in my life was about to shift.

It started, like most love stories in your twenties, with exhaustion.

By my third year, I was unraveling at the seams. There were no slammed doors or stairwell tears, just a slow, silent loosening. Each morning, my alarm dragged me awake already weary, already counting how many classes I could skip before it all collapsed. Most days, I lay in bed, eyes fixed on the ceiling, bargaining with the universe. Please God just give me one thing in life I’m passionate about, something to excite me. Maybe two, just to keep me busy. My economics degree had become uneventful, dreary, and dry, the career following it even more so. I remember when I was younger, my mother used to say that you could tell the most about a person through what they do in their spare time: “if you want to learn something about someone, look at their hobbies”. It’s true that what we put our time and energy towards is a crucial aspect to who we are and who we become. You’ll know right away if you’ll get along better with the guy who paints in the park on the weekend versus the guy who gets up at 5am to go on a run. 

*Sidenote to all the runners: I know you don’t actually enjoy it, I just can’t prove it.*

But the point is, we are our interests, and the pursuit of such interests are a part of what defines us. So tell me why then, at the ripe age of my early twenties, did I have absolutely no hobbies and no interests that excited me? I felt no driving force, no motivation to accomplish anything, I was simply there. And trust me, I tried everything to turn this reality around. I read Joan Didion, and a little Colleen Hoover too. I tried the arts and crafts but I kept poking myself with the felting needle. I’d sooner run a marathon than paint a picture that doesn’t come out looking like I went to war on the canvas. And yet, please don’t ask me about the sports. Seriously, don’t. My free time was always spent on my back, staring at the ceiling, hoping I’d fall asleep and wake up to find essays written, readings absorbed, and my world manageable again. I plummeted into the online world of trends, frauds, and mukbangs, imagining a life for myself that mirrored the tiny fraction of others I saw inside my little device. I would spend all day trapped in a little cocoon I had created for myself, emerging only to fulfill nature’s basic necessities. I realized I was slowly building up a fear that if I stayed inside, something vital in me would flicker out forever.

And so, I mustered the last remaining energy I had, and I went to class.

It was a lecture I hadn’t been to since week one. Halfway through the semester, I felt like a trespasser in someone else’s life. I slipped in late and claimed a seat in the back row, the refuge of the quietly guilty. From there, I could watch without being seen, and exist without joining in. The professor’s voice blurred into the background as I faked scrolling through notes, hoping I looked like I belonged.

That’s when I saw her.

She sat three rows ahead, just to the left, sunlight from the tall windows tangled in her hair. It was brown, but alive with warmth and depth, like melted chocolate. When she shifted, the light followed, gliding along her head as if it belonged to her alone.

She turned to listen, and I caught her eyes—green, gentle, like leaves washed by rain. Her face held a quiet calm, so balanced it seemed as if someone had dreamed it into being.

I forgot entirely where I was.

My chest constricted. My heartbeat thudded, wild and insistent, as if it wanted out. I didn’t know her name, her major, if she loved or loathed the class, if she lived on coffee or barely touched it. But I knew, with a sudden, electric certainty, that I wanted to be her. More so, I wanted her to consume my entire being to the point where I ceased to exist. 

The lecture dragged on, time suspended. I heard nothing. I watched her write—swift, precise. Watched her tuck her hair behind her ear, lean forward when something caught her interest, the world shrinking to that single moment.

When class ended, the scrape of chairs shattered the hush. People stood, zipped their bags, and drifted out. I lingered, pretending to search for something, unsure my legs would carry me.

By the time I stood, she was gone, and I didn’t follow.

The next week, I returned. I pretended it was for the lecture, but I knew better. I took the same seat. She claimed her usual spot at the exact same time as me. It was the same ritual week after week: I would come to class, sit down and spend the next two hours fixated on her. I tried to memorize her every move, every facial expression, just so I could replicate them later on. I was desperately searching for something of hers to hold onto, to bring home with me once the lecture ended. I felt an innate desire to incorporate this person into my everyday life, as if it would all make sense only if she were around. 

One afternoon, near the end of term, I stayed later than usual. The room had emptied in its familiar shuffle of coats and voices, but this time I didn’t pretend to pack slowly. I watched her stand, watched her smooth her sweater, sling her bag over her shoulder, and head for the hallway.
And for the first time, I followed. Not close enough to be seen, just close enough not to lose her. She didn’t go far, only down the corridor, past the bulletin boards and the vending machines humming with exhaustion, and into the washroom at the end of the hall. I hesitated outside the door, suddenly embarrassed by my own determination. But  some thin, stubborn thread in me tugged me forward. Inside, the fluorescent lights buzzed overhead.

The room smelled faintly of soap and paper towel. For a moment, I thought I’d lost her, and then I saw her again. She stood at the long mirror above the sinks, looking straight ahead, shoulders squared, posture calm, like someone entirely at ease in her own life. I slowed, breath caught somewhere between my lungs and my throat.

She didn’t move.

I took another step.

Still, she didn’t move.

And then, with a small, terrible clarity, I realized she had been moving.
Exactly when I moved.
Exactly how I moved.

I stopped.

So did she.

The silence in the room shifted from ordinary to enormous.

I stared at her face — the green eyes, the calm expression, the quiet steadiness I had spent weeks memorizing —and felt something inside me loosen, then settle into place. Not a collapse, but something finally aligning. My hands trembled slightly as I rested them on the counter.

She did the same.

Not a stranger.
Not a girl I had to chase or decode or somehow borrow from.

Just me.

Not the me I’d been lately, but the me I could be. The version of myself who showed up to class. Who listened. Who leaned forward when something was interesting instead of shrinking away from it. The one who looked like she belonged in her own life. I let out a breath I didn’t realize I’d been holding. For weeks, I’d been trying to take something from her — a gesture, a confidence, a presence I thought I lacked. I thought she was someone I had to follow home. But standing there, I understood. I watched as she — as I — straightened a little, chin lifting just enough to feel the difference. It wasn’t dramatic. No cinematic swell of music, just a small adjustment, like turning toward a window and finally noticing the light. Maybe I didn’t need to wake up with my life magically fixed. Maybe I just needed to stop leaving myself behind. Maybe just seeing myself in the little mirror on the classroom wall gave me the impression that I could be present. I grabbed my bag and turned for the door, the fluorescent hum still steady above me. Nothing outside had changed. The same hallway. The same campus. The same unfinished assignments and uncertain future awaiting. But for the first time in months, I felt like I wasn’t walking back to the same stale room inside my head. I felt like I was bringing someone with me.