At first I missed her. I didn’t see her. I couldn’t. I wonder if I was blinded. How could I have missed her. There she is, on the very fringe of the photograph. Barely visible. Hair pulled back, wide, empty eyes, wearing clothes that are a size too big. There’s something about her. Something familiar, yet strange. Something compelling. She is there, even though she is never looking at the camera. As though I can see her only out of the corner of my eye, else she just isn’t there. Like a ghost. 

And I’ve started looking for her. Searching every photograph, every memory, every sentence and every word. But she disappears when I search for her. Hides, behind a shelf, a clothesline, a sound. I search for her in his eyes. As though it will reveal more than the photograph has captured. But I turn away frustrated because I cannot see what he has seen, cannot see her. 

But he talks to me. Endlessly, about everything, about every minute. Every moment is accounted for. And I listen, impatiently, for a mention her. But she hides. And I stare, at him, till he reaches to touch my face and I realise that there are tears running down my cheeks. Silent, angry tears. Irrational tears. I must know her.

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