She's Still Out There

It was late. Way past closing. The pizza ovens were off, the floor mopped, and the neon “OPEN” sign still buzzed faintly in the window like it hadn’t gotten the memo. I was sitting on a yellow crate behind the counter, pulling off my flour-dusted sneakers and rubbing my arches when I saw her.

She was sitting on top of the take-out counter like it was the edge of a cliff, legs dangling, arms resting on her knees. She looked like she’d walked straight out of a thunderstorm. Hair windblown, cheeks sun-kissed, eyes wild. She wore cargo shorts, a faded army green tank top, and boots so worn down they looked fused to her feet.

“I never had an imaginary friend.”

“No,” she said, jumping down. “But you had a mythology. A version of yourself you carried like a lantern through your twenties. Remember the plan? Travel. Write a book in a cabin. Backpack through Patagonia. Heal people with your hands and your stories.”

“Let me guess,” I said. “You’re the ghost of who I used to think I’d be.”
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She grinned. “Close. I’m who you planned to be. The one with the compass, the journal, and the steel mug always strapped to her pack. The one who never looked back.”

I exhaled. “It’s been a long day.”

“I know. Pepperoni shortage. Employee called in sick. And you had a suicidal client today, didn’t you?”

I blinked. “How do you know that?”

“Because I am you. Or at least the part you left behind somewhere between raising your kids, and saving your marriage.”

I rubbed my temples.

“You look tired,” she said, chewing a piece of beef jerky like it was gum.

“I have wondered when you’d show up,” I said. Because somehow, some part of me had been expecting this.

She grinned, hopping down with a quiet thud. “Figured I’d stop by. You’ve been feeling the itch.”

“What itch?”

She raised an eyebrow. “The one that hits when you’re folding laundry and listening to podcasts about people hiking the PCT. The one that whispers is this it? while you’re rinsing dishes. The one you silence with gratitude, because your life is good, but something in your bones still wants to howl.”

I didn’t say anything for a moment. Just leaned against the back door and looked at her. She was older than I remembered from the old daydreams. Not some twenty-something adventurer, but weathered, strong, like she’d lived a life worth writing down in a field journal. She looked like me, if I’d taken the other road.

“I’m not unhappy,” I said.

“I didn’t say you were.”

“I have three kids. A husband who tries. A business that keeps us fed. And I just finished my diploma. I’ve looked at my trauma. All of it. I became a counselor because of it.”

“And that’s beautiful,” she said softly. “Truly. You’ve done the work most people run from. You turned your pain into something that heals others. But tell me, when was the last time you sat by a fire and didn’t have to check your phone? Or slept outside just because it felt right? Or walked into the woods without a plan or a deadline?”

I looked at her, this rough-and-ready woman I used to sketch in notebooks and daydream about being when life felt unbearable. She was all instinct and wilderness, confidence and solitude. She was me without the self-doubt, the bills, the guilt.

“I don’t have time for—”

She cut me off. “Yes, you do. You make time for everything else. For their schedules. For your clients. For the budget and the eye appointments and the birthday parties. But you won’t give yourself a weekend in the wild?”

I sighed. “I chose this life.”

“And you’ve done it well,” she said. “But you didn’t cancel me. You just stopped inviting me.”
That one hit. I looked at her, and felt the truth settle in my chest like a warm ache. She wasn’t here to accuse me. She was here because I missed her.

“I thought becoming a grown woman meant letting you go,” I said.

She shook her head. “It meant making room for all of you. Not just the parts that serve others. You can be a mother, a wife, a therapist, and still crave a night alone under the stars, a dirt trail, wind in your face. You can want more and still love what you have.”

“I don’t want to blow up my life,” I said.

“I’m not asking you to,” she said. “I’m just asking you to remember me. And maybe pack a bag.”

She started walking toward the woods behind the shop, the way I used to sneak off as a girl, pretending I was on a quest. Before she disappeared into the trees, she turned and said, “You don’t need to become me. Just visit once in a while. I miss you.”

Then she was gone.

Not in a puff of smoke. Just gone.

I stood there for a while. Breathing in the scent of pizza grease and listening to the hum of the walk-in cooler.

Later, I kissed my husband’s head and checked on each of the kids. All of them sleeping, faces soft with the peace I’ve fought to give them.
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Then I opened my journal and wrote:
I never had an imaginary friend. But I had a version of myself who climbed trees barefoot and believed the forest was a cathedral. I became someone else, someone good. But she’s still out there, waiting. Not angry. Just hoping I’ll show up. And maybe this fall, when the air cools, I’ll take a weekend. Just me and the trail.

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