The Face in the Crowd

Date: 12/11/2025

At first, the corridor feels ordinary in that dreamlike, shifting way — people rushing past with dream-soft faces, edges smudged as though reality was painted in watercolour and left to run. Their footsteps echo in hollow rhythm, each person swallowed by their own sense of urgency. And then I see her. Me. A familiar face across the room — but not familiar in the way a reflection should be. A sudden chill floods my ribs, stealing the breath right out of me. She stands alone in the rush of bodies, untouched by their passing. Still. Too still. Like she’s been standing there for centuries. At first I think it’s a trick of distance — a blur, a coincidence — but something inside me turns to ice. My feet start moving before my mind catches up. I push through the crowd, each step dragging a little more dread up my spine. The closeness peels back the illusion, revealing something deeply off. She isn’t looking at me. She’s staring past me — through me — eyes fixed on a distant point I can’t see, as though she’s already begun to dissolve into whatever darkness waits behind my shoulder. Her gaze drifts, unanchored, like the world has slipped from her grasp. I whisper to myself, No… no, that can’t be me. But as I draw closer, the cruel familiarity settles over me: My posture on the days I forget to breathe. My hair when I’ve run out of time to care. My expression when the weight becomes so constant I forget it’s there at all. Up close, the truth becomes unbearable. Her face is drained, colourless, worn down to thin trembling threads. Her eyes hold whole oceans, waves thrashing behind fragile calm. Her skin clings to bone like it’s forgotten how to belong. Her hair hangs in disarray, echoing a life quietly coming undone. I force out a laugh — weak, desperate. The kind meant to patch over cracks. Well… someone had a rough night. But even humour doesn’t touch her. It just falls between us, lifeless. A shiver rises in me. Part of me wants to step back. Another part is already leaning closer. Her chest rises in a shallow, brittle breath. I can feel the heaviness inside her — the heaviness inside me — as though a quiet truth has reached out with cold fingers and pressed them against my heart. She looks like someone who’s been wandering for years, waiting for me to slow down long enough to see her. The corridor softens into silence. Blurred faces drift past, unaware, while I stand frozen before the version of myself who shoulders everything I’ve buried. A quiet horror settles in my bones: How long have I let her fall apart in silence? I extend my hand, trembling, uncertain if I’m offering comfort or begging for forgiveness. I reach towards her, fingers shaking, breath shallow. She doesn’t move. Not a blink. Not a twitch. Just that awful, hollow stare past my shoulder — as though she’s forgotten what it feels like to be seen. Then, slowly, a flicker. A tiny shift in her eyes. A spark catching on the faintest thread of recognition. She sees me. Not the mask I wear. Not the performance I give. But me, stripped down to truth. In that fragile glimmer, I understand: I am not as whole as I convince myself. Not as steady as I claim. Not as in control as the world believes. She is the shadow I’ve neglected — the version of me trying to carry the full weight of my world in silence, growing thinner each time I say “I’m fine” instead of listening. The one quietly drowning so the rest of me can stay afloat. So I reach for her — not to pull her into the light, but to remind her, and myself, that we don’t have to carry this alone.