That had been me in London six weeks ago. All this promise and possibility ahead of me, the novelty of the new. Those people inside were experiencing something that would change them forever.

And here I was, standing on a dark, damp city street, alone.

Just memories.

No messages.

I’d become obsessive.

This wasn’t a new thing for me; I’d always gotten easily wrapped in things. When I was twelve, I saw Indiana Jones for the first time (yeah, I know, took me long enough), and I became obsessed with not only Harrison Ford, but with archeology. I decided I was totally going to be an archeologist instead of an astronomer, and wanted to live my life traipsing through the jungles and deserts on wild adventures. I also decided I would invent a time machine to take me back to the 1980s when Harrison Ford was younger and less grumpy, then somehow convince him to marry me and bring him back to the future.

When I was sixteen I became obsessed with Nick Cave and everything Nick Cave related. I joined chat rooms and fan groups, I poured over lyrics, analyzing them, I collected interviews and read them over and over again in hopes of gleaning something from his words. I started babysitting, even though I wasn’t a big fan of children at the time, so I’d have enough money to drive around America and follow him on tour. Needless to say, I never saved up enough money for that, but I did earn enough to buy signed LPs for my non-existent record player and rare concert posters.

And when I was twenty-three, I went to Spain for a month, fell hard for a married Spanish man and became obsessed over the fact that I hadn’t heard from him. For two days after I had gone to the Met with Josh, I’d become a walking time bomb. I wrote countless messages to Claudia, even Polly, who I grew closer to after the program, it seemed, since we were going through the same thing. At least Eduardo was in contact with her. I talked to other people too—Sammy, Becca, even Manuel the rocker dropped me a line asking about a band we had been listening to together.

No Mateo.

I checked all the time, thinking that the world could change in ten minutes, five minutes, two minutes, thirty seconds.

“Okay,” Josh said to me one sunny morning over bowls of Froot Loops. “Time to spill the beans. Why do you keep checking your phone?”

Caught, I quickly shoved my phone back in my pocket. I opened my mouth to speak but he showed me his palm. “And don’t tell me it’s jet lag.”

I rolled my eyes. “It’s nothing. I’m just waiting to hear from a friend of mine.”

His eyes narrowed and he shoved a spoon of cereal in his mouth, chewing thoughtfully. “This wouldn’t be a male friend, would it?”

I just stared at him blankly.

“Vera, you’re not blinking.”

I blinked. Several times.

He shook his head. “I don’t believe it.”

“What?”

“I’ve never ever seen you like this before over a guy,” he said.

He’s not just some guy, I wanted to say. He’s my man.

At least, he was.

Kinda.

“I don’t really feel like talking about it,” I said, making sure I was blinking a lot while I ate.

“Are you sure? Because your leg keeps shaking the table and you’ve got the crazy eyes going on.”

I stilled my leg. I brought the conversation over to Josh’s art because that was something that we both liked to talk about. But once he got up to put our empty bowls in the sink, I quickly ripped out my phone and checked. My compulsion was out of control.

But I had an email!

I wriggled in my seat, biting my lip as I got a closer look.

Shit. It wasn’t from Mateo. It was from Las Palabras. And it was an attachment.

With my heart in my throat, I downloaded the attachment and opened it.

I sucked in my breath, a pain forming at the back of my throat. It was the group picture on the last day.

From far away it looked like a blur of smiling faces against a blue sky. I took my fingers and zoomed in, going right for me and Mateo.

There we were. My cheeks were red, my face fresh and dewy, like I had this radiant glow about me. Mateo had his arm around me. Seeing his face on the screen felt strange, like he somehow knew I was looking at him, like I was being intrusive. I couldn’t explain it. The fact that he looked more handsome than my memories didn’t help either.

“I see,” Josh said, and I spun around, realizing he was behind me and peering inquisitively over my shoulder. For a split second I had déjà vu, then I remembered that Mateo had done a similar thing to me when I was writing an email to Josh.

“It’s the group picture,” I said. I quickly zoomed it out so it showed all of us.

“You look very happy,” he said in a tone of voice that let me know he wanted to say more. He turned and went down the hall to his room, leaving me with a picture of what was. I stared at it alone, in silence, for a very long time, memorizing everyone’s faces, remembering their voices, their accents, their laughter. Saliva flooded my mouth and I swallowed it down.

Eventually I got up, printed out the picture from my mom’s high tech office computer on a glossy 8x10, and then put it on the wall above the turron and the pig. My shrine to the person I was, was growing.

The obsession continued. I had a feeling it was the only thing keeping my heart from breaking.

The next day, before Mercy and Charles showed up for dinner, I decided to bite the bullet and email Mateo. He had told me it was private, but just in case I wanted it to look as professional as possible.

Hi, Mateo!

Just wanted to drop you a line and see how your English was keeping up! Things are great back in Vancouver, although it’s raining more than usual and that says a lot. The sunny days remind me of Las Palabras! Well, anyway, thought I would say hello. Hope you’re enjoying time back with your family.

Best,

Vera Miles

Not the best email I had ever written but it had to do. I waited a full five minutes, debating on whether to send it or not before I closed my eyes and clicked send. Now it was gone, out of my hands. And of course, now my obsession was going to grow two-fold.

I decided to be brave and leave the phone behind at the house when we went out for dinner. Mercy and Charles were coming over for a few drinks beforehand and then we were going to go to The Fish House in Stanley Park.

“VeeVee.” Mercy said my nickname as she walked into the house with her arms open wide. “I would have thought you’d be more tan.”

“Nice to see you too,” I said as we did a quick, shallow hug. “Less than a week back and the rain has sucked the color out of me.”

“You really need to go to my tanning studio,” she said, comparing her orangey tanned arm to mine. It wasn’t really a fair comparison since I had tattoos on mine which seemed to highlight the pale.

Mercy and I looked vaguely similar. We had the same build, generous in the boobs and the butt, but she did a lot of pilates that made her stand taller and look more toned. Her hair was chemically straightened and a dark golden blonde that I couldn’t figure out if she dyed or not, since I hadn’t seen her natural hair color in years. In a nutshell, she was like Jennifer Aniston on Friends, right down to the sleek and simple way she dressed. The pricey rock on her ring finger and her diamond earrings were spoils from her materialistic aspirations.

I went to give Charles a quick hug.

“VeeVee,” he said in his condescending accent. After spending time in London, I learned that his accent was “BBC English.” I knew because I imitated him a lot.

“Looking good, Chuck,” I said, knowing he hated that as much as I hated him calling me VeeVee.

We retreated into the sitting room by the balcony, my mom having bought wine from Spain for the occasion. As we sat around, only chatting mildly about Spain, I felt like I was thousands of miles away, across a continent, across the Atlantic Ocean. The Vera who was making small talk and sipping wine that didn’t quite taste the same, she was just a hologram.