Page 50 of Meet Me in Berlin

My hand flies to my mouth. A person who looks very similar to the image I’ve carried with me for eleven years stands in front of me. Cropped curly black hair, dark soulful eyes, warm brown skin, tall, lean body. She looks even better with age. I lower my hand to speak, but my throat is tight and my tongue feels thick in my mouth, and all that comes out is, ‘Casey?’

She nods and awkwardly adjusts the bag strap over her shoulder.

‘Oh my God.’ I place my palm against my forehead and turn away. ‘Oh my God.’ I face her again and press my hand to my chest. ‘Oh my fucking God.’

‘Hiya,’ she says.

I give a short, incredulous laugh. ‘Hi.’ My gut twists and turns. My heart explodes. My limbs weaken. ‘You’re here. In this spot. On this day. At this time.’

‘I am. Although, you’re twenty-four hours late…’

I shake my head. ‘No, 23 August, 6pm.’

‘22nd,’ she says.

I scrunch my nose and laugh again. ‘Well, one of us has the date wrong.’

Casey smiles. ‘Seems that way.’

And there’s that smile – the one that warms everything around her. I shake my head as though it will help everything make sense. ‘Um…what are you doing here? You’re not supposed to be here. That wasn’t the plan.’

Her brows lift. ‘You had a plan?’

I nod. ‘A plan to get you out of my system, but here you are.’

She’s silent for an agonising beat. ‘You’re not supposed to be here either.’

Without taking my eyes off her, I take a few steps off the path and lower myself onto a bench. She joins me, sunbeams breaking through the leaves and highlighting the gloss of her black hair and flawless skin. ‘Erm…’ I search for words. ‘Have you … you haven’t been coming here every year since?’ I feel a rush of sadness, picturing her waiting for me every year, my what-if being answered years ago.

She grins. ‘No. Have you?’

I relax. ‘No.’

‘I’ve been here once before, though,’ she says. ‘A few years back.’ She pauses. ‘You weren’t here.’

I’m taken aback and suddenly the rejection I’ve carried all these years doesn’t sting as badly. ‘I’ve been here once before too,’ I say. ‘Three years ago, but not in August.’

We gaze at each other, like we’re trying to work out if this is real or a dream. Above us, a bird chirps, breaking the silence and reminding me to speak.

‘Do you live in Berlin?’ I ask.

‘Um…’ She blinks like she’s been concussed, then finds her voice. ‘No. Still in London. I work in an art gallery and we have one here too. I’m here to help with an exhibition.’ She twists and points behind her. ‘The gallery’s just over there actually, on Auguststrasse.’

‘Art history,’ I say.

‘Sorry?’

‘You were studying art history at uni.’

She smiles. ‘That’s right.’

‘That’s amazing you turned it into a job.’

She nods. ‘It is. What about you? Still in Melbourne then.’

‘Oh,’ I say a little surprised, because that sounded like a statement and not a question. ‘Yes. Did you?—’

‘Your accent,’ she says quickly. ‘Sounds like you’ve been in Australia all this time, is all.’

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