Waiting Sicheng (Sissi) Wang ‘24

WAITING

Sicheng (Sissi) Wang

Here we go again. I cannot fathom why the lines here are so long. Absolutely despicable. And somehow, after all of my scrutinization, calculation, and contemplation, I still manage to end up in the slowest line. Every. Single. Time.

Hear me out. I’m a college student, studying abroad in Paris. Bonjour, ca va? It’s almost Christmas, and my parents insisted that I come home. I guess that’s why there are so many college students surrounding me. It’s been maybe twenty minutes, and I have barely moved an inch closer towards the doorway to freedom. Arrgh! I really can’t justify the fact that I woke up at ve o’clock in the morning for this, just to still miss it!

It’s ok, I comfort myself. No need to worry. Look at everyone in line, everyone’s waiting patiently.

I watch the screen project the time, and I try my best to repress the internal rage picking up momentum as the ticking goes by, minute by minute. 9:43am. 9:44am. 9:45am.

As I start zoning out for perhaps the fourth time, a sound suddenly brings me back to reality.

e passport of the girl in front of me lies open on the ground. She’s carrying so many items in her hands that she doesn’t even realize. I pick it up and hand it over to her as the line nally scooches forward a few steps.

“Mademoiselle,” I politely say as I tap her on the shoulder, “je pense que c’est ton passeport.”

She turns around in her pu y winter coat. She looks to be around my age, but just a few inches shorter. “Ah oui, merci beaucoup!” Her smile shines so brightly. en she turns back around, and I can hear her murmur under her breath, good job at embarrassing yourself again.

Wait a second. She speaks English! “Est-ce que tu parles anglais?” I ask her, intrigued. I am honestly so bored I’m willing to strike up any conversation just to entertain myself for a few minutes.

“Me? Ah yes I do! You too?”

“Yeah, I’m actually from America.”

“Oh interesting! I used to live there as well. It’s certainly very di erent from Paris.”

“Yeah, de nitely,” I suddenly feel very perplexed about two things. First of all, how can she remain so positive right now when we’ve been stuck here for so long - don’t her legs ache? Also, why does that smile seem so familiar?

“Are you also studying in Paris?” She asks me. She must’ve noticed that I stopped paying attention.

I snap back from my ludicrous daydreaming thoughts. “Yes, yes, at the Sorbonné Université. I’m actually going back home for the holidays. Where do you come from?”

“From London. It’s rainy and foggy all the time, I would take New York City and Paris over London any day.”

WAITING | Sicheng (Sissi) Wang (continued)

Something seems o . She looks so familiar. I must’ve seen her somewhere.

She continues, “It was my dream ever since I was a child to live and study in Paris. I love everything here, except the cold weather. Winter here isn’t that wonderful, you know?”

“Yeah, I get that.” No no no. I really don’t get this. Is it really her? It can’t be her. But she did tell me that she wanted to live in Paris before. It must be her. We both fall into silence, while the o cers at the front of the line tell people to hurry up. We’re almost there.

“Sorry, may I ask what is your name?” she asks.

“Oh yeah sorry about that, I’m Arielle. I should’ve told you earlier. What’s yours?”

“ at’s such a pretty name! I’m Julie.”

e o cers are organizing the bins on the conveyor belt, and others are scanning people from top to bottom. I can now see everything clearly, but I can’t think clearly anymore. I really thought it was her. I was almost ninety- ve percent certain, but her name’s Julie? I guess it’s not her, then.

She is checked and walks through the doorway rst, waiting for her things to come through. Before she leaves, she waves to me, “Bye, Arielle! It was nice to meet you today. Hope to meet you in Paris one day!”

“It was nice seeing you! Have a safe trip!” As it is nally my turn to walk through the doorway, I don’t feel a sense of relief but incomprehension instead. Why’s her name Julie? It must have been her, though. She told me all about her plan of studying in France when we were younger. She’s still that little girl who was always shorter than me, even when we were best friends. It was her smile. Everything tied together. But how come it seemed like she didn’t recognize me? Was she acting?

I realize that I’m going to miss my ight if I don’t hurry up, yet as I drag my luggage towards the gate, I can’t stop thinking about it. I have been helplessly waiting for her for years, almost a decade, after she left. I came up with all the ways we would meet each other, but this one was certainly not one that I had imagined. . I desperately want to turn around to see her again. But I force myself not to. I squirm my way in the crowd to arrive at my gate—safe and punctual.

So this is my story about almost nothing, really. is is about a reunion that could’ve happened, a friendship that should’ve lasted, a moment that would’ve made all the di erence, but never quite happened.

is must be the worst unforgettable prank God’ll ever pull on me. But since there are no second chances, I don’t have to worry about that anyways. I return to Paris continuing with my studies, never feeling the need to inquire or look for her. Maybe one day we will bump into each other again, maybe we won’t. C’est la vie.