I took off my apron as soon as the restaurant clock struck eleven on the dot. The clinking of glasses at the bar still lingered, mixed with the laughter of a couple of customers who didn’t seem in any hurry to go home. I was. I smiled with my usual automatic politeness as I said goodbye to my coworkers, as if I actually cared about the conversation I was leaving behind. That wasn’t the case.

The cold Canadian night air greeted me the moment I stepped out the back door. An icy gust that reminded me, like every day, that my life outside those walls had no witnesses. Inside, I’m “Liz, the friendly waitress.” Outside, I go back to being Elizabeth—the one who doesn’t return calls, the one who never accepts invitations, the one who prefers silence over voices.

I walked toward the bus stop with my hands buried in my pockets and the feeling that, at that hour, the city belonged only to those who had no one waiting for them.

It had only been half an hour by the time I got home. It wasn’t that far, but the cold was reason enough to avoid walking.

When I stepped inside, my mother greeted me with the same warm smile as always.

“How was work?” she asked.

“The same as every other day, Mom. Nothing new happened,” I replied in a flat tone.

Don’t get me wrong, it’s not that I don’t get along with my mother—far from it. I was just tired, and all I wanted was to lock myself in my room. As I was already going up the stairs, her voice stopped me:

“Don’t you want something to eat?”

I turned and saw her by the table. She had made pea soup, enough for two people. I assumed she wanted us to have dinner together, so I didn’t refuse, even though I had no appetite.

“It’s delicious, thank you… but you didn’t have to go through the trouble.”

“It’s no trouble,” she replied gently. “It’s cold outside, and I wanted you to have something warm.”

Before I realized it, it was already past midnight. I got up, washed the dishes, and went up to my room. My small refuge. A bed, a closet, a few pieces of furniture… and my computer, the only thing that truly felt like mine. I started playing out of curiosity, and now it’s almost my way of existing. The hours slip by between matches and conversations with strangers, and the routine repeats itself: I sleep a little during the day, work, come back home. From the outside, it would seem like an empty life… but I don’t feel that way. I’m not bored—not when I’m in my own world.

I walked over to the window. On the horizon, the light of the sun was already visible. Dawn caught me awake once again. I didn’t mind: it was Saturday, and I didn’t have to work that day. I planned to spend the weekend locked inside, as always. However, something inside me—a strange, almost uncomfortable impulse—told me I should go out.

I went downstairs and prepared breakfast for both of us. We chatted for a while before she left for the hospital. Being a doctor kept her busy most of the day. Since I was a child, I had learned to live with her absence, with that kind of loneliness covered by routine. And although freedom seemed like a gift, sometimes it felt like an invisible weight, one I wasn’t quite sure how to carry.

The hours passed quickly. At noon, I left the house and walked to the MacBride Museum, a place visited by both tourists and locals. For me, it was almost a refuge: there was so much to read and observe that I never got tired of it, even though I actually knew it by heart. I liked getting lost in its halls, as if history could silence my own thoughts.

After a while of wandering through every corner, I sat down to rest with my headphones on. The music wrapped around me, and I was about to get up to look for something to eat when I saw her.

One of the museum guides appeared with a group of visitors. She had long hair tied back in a simple ponytail, and she seemed just a little younger than me. She was shorter, and yet she seemed to fill the space with her presence. I couldn’t hear what she was saying—the music was still playing in my ears—but the others were watching her attentively. I, on the other hand, could only look at her.

There was something about the way she smiled, about her confident gestures, that completely disarmed me. I stayed lost, as if the entire museum had disappeared, until suddenly our eyes met. She smiled widely, raised her hand, and motioned for me to join the group.

I felt the blood rush to my face. All I could do was blush, lower my gaze, and awkwardly stand up to leave.

I walked aimlessly until I entered a nearby bar, just a block from the museum. I sat by the window and ordered something to eat, even though my hunger had vanished. Her image kept replaying in my head, and all I felt was embarrassment. Why had I run away like that? What am I? A child? I hated myself a little for reacting that way, and yet I couldn’t stop smiling in disbelief.

I finished eating and went back to the museum, determined. I wanted to apologize for running off. I walked in nervously, my gaze restless, searching for her in every room. But she wasn’t there. With every step, the worry grew: maybe her shift had ended, maybe she had already left.

After several minutes wandering the halls without success, I accepted that I wouldn’t find her. Still, I gathered my courage and approached the reception desk. What could I say? Where is the pretty girl from an hour ago? The mere thought made me burn with embarrassment. I took a deep breath and blurted out the first thing that came to mind.

“Hi… I don’t want to bother you, but… the girl who was giving the tour, does she work here?” I asked, my voice unsteady.

The person behind the counter tried to hide a smile, and I understood why: the question was obvious. A uniformed guide, surrounded by tourists—of course she worked there. The three seconds it took them to answer felt eternal.

“Yes, she works here. Do you have any complaints?” they said in a serious tone.

“No, no, not at all. I just wanted to know… if she comes every day.”

The receptionist gave me a calculating look, and finally shook their head.

“I’m sorry, I can’t give you information about our employees.”

I had expected that, but for the first time in a long while, I had dared to feel a bit of hope. Embarrassed, I turned to leave, when their voice stopped me again:

“But… if you want to see her again, come back on Monday. Maybe she’ll be here again.” They said it with a knowing smile.

I left the museum with my heart racing and a smile even wider than theirs. Outside, I ran into another problem: I had too many free hours, and time seemed to have stopped. I wanted Monday to come as quickly as possible. I noticed something curious… it had been a long time since I had felt this kind of excitement, this tingling anticipation of waiting for something so eagerly.

I walked around the museum area, hoping to run into her by chance. The hours passed in vain, and, tired, I returned home at dusk. It was almost seven, and Mom still hadn’t arrived. I checked my phone and saw two missed calls from her, so I called back.

“Mom? Sorry for not answering earlier, I was at the museum and then I got distracted walking.”

“Don’t worry, sweetheart. I was calling to let you know I’ll be back later than usual today, so don’t wait up for me. There’s food in the fridge… or order something if you want.” Her voice sounded exhausted.

“Alright. Thanks for letting me know. Good luck… I love you.”

There was a brief silence on the other end of the line, followed by a soft laugh.

“I love you too, Liz.”

I stood still, aware of what I had just said. I’m not usually affectionate—not with her. The truth is, I couldn’t remember the last time I had said something like that to her. The mere thought made me blush.

I went up to my room, turned on my computer, and started playing. Sleep disappeared, and so did hunger. The only thing I wanted was for the days to pass quickly… until Monday arrived.

I made myself a promise. That night, while I was in my room, I opened the museum’s website and looked up the guided tour schedules for Monday. I couldn’t just wait without doing anything—not after what I had felt in that moment. I didn’t want to see her again from afar, like a spectator hidden behind my headphones. This time, I wanted to listen to her, follow every word, even if, for me, it would be the first time truly attending a guided tour.

And I got lucky. There was a tour scheduled for Monday at noon, and I could still sign up. As soon as I saw it, I confirmed the reservation without thinking twice.

After closing the page, I stayed for a moment staring at the blank computer screen. My heart was racing, as if I had just made a decision far more important than it actually was. I kept telling myself it was just a tour, nothing special, and yet… something inside me insisted that it was.