The fleeting glances are the worst.
When your heart drops, when your stomach flutters at the sight of a head of orange curls in a crowd and the question what the hell Kyle was doing in San Francisco never crosses your mind, you just swear to whatever controls anything that its him. You chase this head of coils.
You keep you eyes glued to the back of their head, and since its the only thing your attention is on, you bang and knock into things and people, but you can't care less if they think you're a douche. You quicken your pace, heart pumping faster and you're suddenly light headed at the thought of him turning to you, smiling slightly, like he was egging you on.
Then you reach them and catch their shoulder, your heart beating faster than its ever.
And when they turn to see who the fuck you are, their expression is a curious one.
But their eyes aren't that precise shade of green you remember, their lips aren't full enough, their nose isn't long and rounded, their skin not as pale.
You can't help it as disappointment settles into your expression, as your world crashes around you, and the only thing you can do it mutter a small apology before fleeing in a flurry of embarrassment and tears.
This happens every so often, and every time you think of what happened before, but every time, you also think about what if it's him this time. So you chase.
You can't bear to head out to a crowded place in the winter, where everyone is flushed face, and half the population seems to be wearing a green ushanka but no one wears an orange coat.
You pass a synagogue and secretly search for those curls. What kind of Jew has red hair? Kyle. You search anyway.
But deep down inside you know he has it much worse, because black shaggy hair is much more common then red curls, and brown coats are worn more than orange, and red-and-blue pom pom hats are more standard than lime green ushankas and that his heart must catch several times a day, but maybe he's used to it.
He's got to be used to it.