It's a cold morning in late December when you meet her for the first time. Nothing out of the ordinary, just one of those situations where you just happen to cross paths with somebody and end up having a conversation, which turns into two conversations, which turns into three.

"I don't believe you told me your name."

"Names aren't particularly important, are they? A name does not tell you everything about a person, after all. Do you really need to know?"

"When you put it like that, I suppose not."

(That voice at the back of your mind tells you she must have something to hide, but you ignore it and decide not to ask. After all, you're hardly the type to pry into the lives of mysterious women you only met four minutes and thirty-three seconds ago.)


You rarely form close acquaintances with others, but somehow you continue to cross paths with her over the next few months. You meet up occasionally, arranging to meet a week or two later – and while you expect her to forget, she always turns up without fail. More often than not, you simply take walks in the park together, and talk of trivial things like your boring day at the office, or the latest best-selling novel.

On occasion, you take her to your favourite café – a small place down one of the back streets where tourists and shoppers never venture. It's not particularly fancy or upmarket, but it has a somewhat homely feel to it – perhaps that's why you prefer it. These trips to the café aren't too different from your walks in the park – you still talk about anything and everything, but there's something nice about having a chat over a cup of tea and a slice of chocolate cake.

(You ignore the wary glances people give you when you're talking to her, or the way the waiter in the café gives you a puzzled look when you order two cups of coffee instead of one.)


It's around mid-April when she suddenly announces she's leaving town.

"I'm leaving. My time here was short and I always knew it to be only temporary, but I wish to thank you for making it worthwhile."

"Where are you going? Perhaps I can visit–"

"I don't know. It's unlikely we'll meet again – I'm sorry."

She wraps her arms around you then, but something doesn't feel quite right; her skin is cold to the touch despite the warm weather, and her breath feels icy against your neck. She whispers one final word to you - "Goodbye." - before pulling away from the embrace.

You blink, and all of a sudden she's not there any more.

(Maybe she never was in the first place.)

(a/n): i don't really know where i was going with this; it's kind of weird.