By Enrique Graterol

Maybe she was real. Maybe she wasn’t. It doesn't really matter.

My last morning in London started like every other day of my trip with coffee, pastries, and a long walk. Today’s particular goal, however, was to walk through Kensington Gardens in search of my perfect tree. I was close to the end of my well-worn copy of Mrs. Dalloway, and determined to finish it before leaving for that night’s showing of Evita. It didn't take long for me to find the perfect place to rest, an imposing oak tree at least 100 years old with sturdy boughs and a trunk that nestled my back just so, almost as if Mother Nature carved it for me. Staring out at the mirrored lake, I wondered how many people had sat under this very tree with their own book in hand, finding themselves in the water.

The day could not have been more beautiful, and the park was crowded with thousands of people delighting in the same experience. Still, we would never interact. Amidst a sea of strangers, it hit me that the last moments of this trip were slipping through my fingers just as I had started to experience them. Try as I might to slow it down, time kept marching on at its own chosen pace. I saved a mental image of the ballet of swans skating along the brilliant surface of the water before returning to the last moments of Clarissa Dalloway’s most fateful day. The world around me melted away for what seemed like minutes, but before I knew it, it was time to leave my swans and my tree for the next lonely reader.

As I made my way to the West End, I rejected my instinct to reach for my earbuds — choosing to listen to the symphony of the city instead. I tried to catalog all of it for later just as I had done at the park, even though I knew it was an impossible task. The cars, the birds, and the tourists from all over speaking in their mother tongues blending together. I knew the moments I was currently living in were ones I would one day long for. That feeling of nostalgia in real time followed me all the way to the Palladium Theater. While this time spent traveling alone had shown me the beauty of solitude and pushed me out of my comfort zone, I began to miss my friends and family nearing the trip’s end. When I arrived at the venue, I presented my ticket at the door and was quickly ushered upstairs.

By the time we reached the top of our lengthy ascent, I was sure the air had started to thin. My trusty guide opened a heavy wooden door to the crimson glow of a charming theater slightly past its prime. Red velvet seats, warm lights and ornate cream and gold plaster doused every inch of the atrium with a touch of old Hollywood glamour and 1950s luxury. Regardless of its current state, the spirit of the place came alive as the audience began to fill in, and by the time they dimmed the lights, every seat was full and the crowd buzzed with anticipation.

After two weeks of traveling alone on the other side of the world, I was desperate for connection. When the first intermission arrived, I turned to my left and decided to strike up a conversation with the girl sitting next to me. Heaven, as she introduced herself to me, felt refreshingly relatable — effervescent, engaging, and easy to talk to. She met me with an easy, inviting smile and spoke in an accent that instantly betrayed the fact she was not a Londoner, but in fact, visiting from Birmingham.

Luckily for me, she was just as happy to chat, but from our very first exchange we knew our friendship was destined to end. Not because of any failing of hers or mine, but rather a conflict of circumstance. We started off as actors, like those in the play in front of us, presenting the most palatable versions of ourselves. But the shiny veneers wore off quickly as our conversation delved into our hopes and desires for the future. I told her about my family and friends back home and what university life was like back in the States. She told me that she was an aspiring actress here in England who would be starring in a local production of West Side Story a few months later. Heaven also confided in me that she had not seen the original version of the musical we were watching, but Rachel Zegler as the lead was enough of a draw to warrant her trip. We had both grown up singing in choirs. We were both older siblings. And it was both of our last nights in London.

Looking back, I’m honestly not sure why we clicked so well, but in that moment, all that mattered was that we did, and that we were both willing to try. For all I know, she could have been lying about everything, but saying vulnerable words becomes infinitely easier when their impact evaporates the moment they leave your mouth.

The fifteen minutes of intermission were up, and the show had to go on.

When the show ended, my new friend and future starlet insisted our theater experience would not be complete without a visit to the stage door. Our friendship emerged from a facsimile of 1940s Buenos Aires onto the freshly rain-soaked streets of a very real modern day London. I realized the sun had set hours ago and each breath I took filled my lungs with colder air than the last, another reminder of what little time I had left in this city. A small crowd of theater fanatics eager to get their paraphernalia signed told us we were in the right place, and once we found a spot to wait, conversation flowed again.

As we stood there, a few of the supporting cast members made their rounds and we could not help but notice the crazed obsession of the women fighting to get in front of us for a signature. I would not have imagined professional theatre could incite this sort of fanfare. It even got to the point that a bodyguard had to hold someone back, which made us both laugh. In the eyes of everyone around us, Heaven and I probably seemed like two best friends — and in a way we were, for the time being.

Our hasty replica of friendship was evidently built on a house of cards, missing the foundational years of shared experiences and inside jokes that would normally keep it upright. But on this night, on this street, the air was seemingly still enough that our wavering structure might stand. Even if just for a few more hours.

We continued to talk about everything under the sun until a very tired looking Miss Zegler finally came out and joined us. After a few moments of clamor and the opportunity to say a quick thank you for tonight’s performance, Heaven and I watched her tinted black Escalade drive into the distance, and the magic of the moment began to dissolve. The hourglass was down to its last grains of sand and we would soon head our separate ways, back to real life. We slowly walked from the theater to the train station and said goodbye for what we both knew would be the first and last time. As soon as she turned the corner, I started to wonder if I had imagined the whole experience.

If we both lived different lives in different places, I’m sure we would have been great friends. But in this reality, she exists solely as a mirage in my memory, our night relegated to the depths of my own recollection. Whenever I think back on this evening, the memory morphs a little, some spots blurrier than others, but each remembrance is just as real as the last. Even though the details might fade with time, sometimes a moment of connection can be just as valuable as a lifetime of friendship. ■