The Stand-In's Exit

Julia and I have been together for five years. During those five years, her face-blindness—a condition called prosopagnosia, which makes it impossible to recognize faces—stood like an invisible wall, dividing us into two separate worlds. One time, I worked late until ten; my name tag got crushed in the crowded subway. When I got home, I saw Julia at the community gate carrying two huge shopping bags. I hurried over, intending to take the bags and say, "Let me help," but she suddenly recoiled, and the tomatoes in her hands spilled all over the ground. "Who are you? Don't touch me!" Her voice shook as she stepped back two paces. The hallway lights switched on, triggered by the noise, and half the neighbors poked their heads out. A neighbour, Mrs. Jackson, even rushed out, spatula in hand: "Julia, what's wrong? Is everything alright?" I quickly fumbled a spare name tag from my pocket and held it up before her: "Julia, it's me, James Harris. My name tag broke, so I hadn't replaced it yet." She stared at the tag for half a minute, then slowly softened, tears shimmering in her eyes: "I'm sorry, I've mistaken you again." That day, I was crouching on the ground picking tomatoes, and she stood beside me quietly saying, "Let me help you," but she ended up knocking over the bell peppers too. In the end, we both crouched there, picking them up for ten minutes before we finished. There was another time when I had a severe cold and a fever, and I woke up at night looking for water. Julia was startled awake by the noise, came out to check, and when she saw me, she turned around and grabbed a knife, saying, "How did you get in? Don't come any closer!" I didn't have a name tag inside my pajamas, so all I could say was, "Julia, look at me. I'm James. Feel my face, remember? I have a mole right here on my chin." She stared at my chin for a few seconds, then suddenly dropped the knife and threw herself into my arms, crying, "James, I'm sorry. I mistook you again. Were you scared?" I had a cut on my arm from the knife; later, I went to the hospital to get seven stitches. During those days in the hospital, Julia came every day, bringing porridge she had made. Julia's father, Mr. Johnson, came to see me at the hospital. With red eyes, he held my hand and said, "James, listen to me—just give up." I shook my head. "Mr. Johnson, as long as she still needs me, I won't let go." After being discharged, I searched through all the medical literature in the library and consulted several doctors. Finally, I came up with the idea of making glow-in-the-dark name tags. I ordered a batch of plastic cards online, boldly printed with "James" on the front and fluorescent stickers on the back, hanging them on my collar. I even had my name printed on her phone case, keychain, and water bottle. When Julia saw these cards for the first time, she smiled and said, "Now I can recognize you even at night." Later, we even started talking about the wedding date, and she said she wanted to wear the name tag I made by hand as an accessory at the wedding. I thought things would always stay this good—until that day at the airport. I bought her favorite cake and arrived at the airport half an hour early, spotting her pushing her suitcase from afar. But she didn't walk toward me; instead, she stopped where she was and smiled at a man. The man wore a gray trench coat and carried a black backpack. I recognized him—Evan, Julia's childhood friend whom she hadn't seen in seven years. I was about to approach when I heard Julia's voice, filled with a joy I'd never heard before: "Evan, I knew it was you instantly! Even if the world went dark, I could still pick you out!" Those words hit me like an ice pick, stabbing into my heart, making me almost drop the cake I was holding. So it wasn't that she couldn't recognize people. It's just that her miracle was never meant for me.