Thanks to binx_349 and brightillusions.
He hadn't counted on New York City being this windy. It ruffles his hair, bites at his skin, whips against him and reminds him that no, there's nothing that's forgiving, not really.
Sid thinks, for the umpteenth time that he's allowed Tony to talk him into something again and maybe this wasn't the best idea. He's got no visa, no money, no clue and knows absolutely nothing about the subway system. Enough to know not to go too far uptown, and never to ask for directions, but as far as being informed, Sid's got little to go on.
There's a hostel in Time Square, aptly named the Big Apple and he's been crashing there with a guy from Liverpool who he ran into while trying to buy a MetroCard. He'd recognize that accent anywhere and he's glad he did. Matt's his name and he has a computer, so every night before he sneaks into the common room to crash on the floor beneath the window, he checks Facebook.
But there's no activity on her page, and hasn't been for some time. No status updates, no notes from friends and no photos. Sid even googles her, deliberately types the name 'Cassie Ainsworth' into the search bar, but it only retrieves her facebook information, an article that contained her name from three years ago, and a listing for her primary graduating class.
He doesn't know why he persists.
He guesses, well, what else is there?
The food makes him sick, all of those preservatives, probably, or maybe it's that the things he can afford have no nutritional value. Fries and donuts and really anything off the dollar menu of any fast food restaurant he passes while he's on the hunt.
Over ten-million people live in the New York city area and he's just one of them, and she's another and if he knew statistics he was sure he'd be depressed calculating the likelihood of them just running into one another on Park Avenue and having a bite.
And kissing and making up.
And deciding to just go home and pretending like all of this isn't so fucked up.
He borrows Matt's cell to make a call across the pond. Tony talks about himself mostly, about how Michelle is coming down next break to visit him and Sid wonders if he's ever listening at all. Except he tacks on, at the end of the world's worst run on sentence: "Still haven't found her? Well, you will," and there's a conviction in his voice that stuns Sid, and so he listens on until the phone dies, about coursework and Effy and everything else Tony can think to go on about.
They don't talk about the accident, and they don't talk about anything from the past.
Neither one of them wants the sense of inevitability that comes with discussing their past and Sid understands that and waits for Tony to stop talking.
He wants to tell his friend that he misses everything about everything but the phone beeps and dies; everything is empty.
Her face is everywhere, he swears it. There's her reflection in the storefront windows, she's in a stranger on the train (all of the strangers, all of them), her voice echoes off of the high buildings on 34th street until he's going insane with all of her. Without any of her.
There's that wrinkled photo in his wallet, a worn crevice cutting across the center of her face. Cassie on paper is unrecognizable, but Sid just can't get her out of his damned head.
It's a Thursday, when he considers leaving. Rain tears across the city sideways and as it saturates his clothes, the point settles home. The liklihood of finding her and pretty fucking slim. Busing at a diner isn't exactly gainful employment and the hostel is getting too crowded and he just wants to be alone. Alone. The concept is downright impossible in this city and he longs for the country, and Yorkshire pudding and something like home. Nothing about America, nothing that he's seen appeals to him and it all makes him question why he's even here, again. Again, again, again. Is it possible that he's as crazy as she is and honestly, does he really love her?
Is it the love that's making him crazy or did she just rub off on him, or has it been like this all along, because everything is just entirely too confusing as it is.
He works, he wanders, he sleeps and it's his existence and it's endless and he wonders how much he can take.
The notion of escape is surprisingly fleeting, and he forgets he even considered it on Friday when the rain stops and the sun reemerges and everything looks a bit brighter.
Sid buys new shoes; they're a half-size too small for him, but they were cheap and they carry him to Brooklyn, where he sees her entering the Atlantic Avenue subway stop and loses her in the tunnels beneath the street. He tries to convince himself that his eyes are playing tricks until he realizes he's been staring across the track for ages, and it hurts to blink.
And there she is.
She gets on the 2 Express.
He finds himself searching the neighborhoods along the line; tFinancial District, West Village, Chelsea, Midtown, Upper West Side. He walks until he bleeds, because it's apropos.
When his iPod dies on him, he's decided he's had enough; if there's no music to serve as a backdrop to his pilgrimage, no soundtrack to his search, Sid doesn't think he can take anymore-doesn't really get how he's made it this far, or why. The only reason it's worked as long as it has is because he coan block out the sounds of the city, the car horns and rushed voices. It's all too much, a cacophony crushing him into the dirty pavement.
The dirty pavement he can't help but wonder if she's walked at some point.
It would feel different if she had, maybe.
It's easy for Jal to wire him the money and he slips to the airport like a ghost that has barely lived. But the city clings to him like a dense, heavy reminder of, "Fuck all, Sid, you're really doing this and you've really done it and what the fuck are you doing." This is what it is, all of it stinging regret and dashed hopes, utter depression. That this is it, that it's all been for nothing.
Pack on his back, sneakers nearly worn through, he collapses into one of the tough lounge chairs, slides down, closes his eyes. Small blessings, respite for a moment. It's all blessedly quiet.
And then he hears, "I couldn't take it either, you know."
Sid's eyes do no fly open, nor does he startle. Really, honestly, if it had to be any way, it would have to be like this.
"Not here, no. You, and not being near you." His eyes slide open and she's biting her thumbnail and swinging her leg and picking at the hem of her too-large dress.
The boarding pass slides from his hand to the floor. "Months, Cass, I've been here for months." And what else is there to say?
Bending, she grabs his pass, holds it, trades it for hers. "Wow," is all she says.