text: “Clara.” The single word cut through the coffee shop buzz, piercing through the grinding espresso beans and pulsing blenders. I pretended not to hear the grey-haired customer calling out in my direction and focused on my task at hand: foaming milk. I had 18 more minutes in my shift and was not in the mood for what I knew was about to come. “ClarClarClay-ruhhhh,” she blurted. I had no choice but to look back. I have FFS: familiar face syndrome. It’s not a case of a doppelganger, celebrity look-a-like face. As much as I’d like to have a striking resemblance to Jennifer Lawrence or Emma Watson or any other famous person for that matter, I do not. Rather, I’m the face of the person you kind of know or kind of used to know. I’ve been a co-worker’s sister, a yoga instructor, an old friend from middle school, a girl from last week’s birthday dinner, a daughter’s old babysitter. The list goes on and on. If faces were answers to multiple-choice questions, mine would be “all of the above.” The mix-ups happen in airports and restaurants, on the sidewalk and subways. The conversations are nearly always the same and the awkwardness is like splitting a bill at the end of a group dinner. It gets weird. The interactions usually go a little something like this: **Scenario 1: Long Time No See** As I blankly stare out the bus window, I’m yanked from my daydream to the sounds of: “Lisa, Lisa! I cannot believe I’m running into you like this. After all of these years! What a small world.” I’ve actually been mistaken for a Lisa three times. **Scenario 2: Cut To The Chase** Sometimes they try to pick up where they think we’ve left off. I’ll be mid-chug in my morning cup of coffee and hear: “Caroline, I finally decided to do it. I called my brother and you’re right, I feel so much better.” Insert: long pause. **Scenario 3: You Are Who I Say You Are** And finally, my favorite, the stranger who thinks I’m lying. “It’s me, Charlie. We went out three years ago? You know, that Korean BBQ joint on 32nd and 1st avenue? You never called me back. No, no. It’s definitely you. I remember you had four brothers.” I have one sister. No matter the situation, the person eventually realizes my apologetic eyes are different from the ones they know. “So sorry, you’ve got a twin out there!” they say. Their look of astonishment fades as they shuffle off. I get it. Only so many facial configurations are possible. Plus, I’m 5’5 and average build with a wardrobe that consists of mostly jeans and sweaters. I have no distinguishing tattoos or piercings. Also, I’m not helping my case with my shoulder-length hair that is considered blonde in New York and brunette in Los Angeles. I tell myself I’m sending an approachable vibe out into the universe and FFS may make it easier for me to connect with others. I always found people confessed secrets to me openly and who knows, maybe my Prince Charming will strike up a conversation with me thinking I’m an old friend. Hey, it’d beat Bumble. Yet, there’s something oddly sinking about telling people you aren’t who they think you are and something kind of freaky about knowing your face is that similar to someone else’s - multiple else’s. Alas, when this seemingly nice lady was clearly mistaking me for “Clara”, I tried to break the news gently and exit quickly, channeling the same inner-strength I used to tell a customer we’re all out of mocha powder. “So sorry,” I said. “I think you think I’m someone else. It happens a lot.” I was on my way to continue my milk foaming when the moment swerved from the land of deja vu to unseen territory in a matter of seconds. The woman’s eyes welled up with water and she squeezed her lids tight to plug the tears from streaming down her cheeks. Fumbling over words to make her feel better, I apologized again and nervously offered an idea: “Maybe it’s a sign you should reach out to her?” The woman slid her right hand over the counter and pressed her warm palm on top of my mine with tenderness, as if she was touching something breakable and important. “You look *just* like my daughter. It’s unbelievable,” she said. The woman weakly told me her daughter Clara died in a car accident on the way to a ski trip with friends. Clara was 19-years-old. She was a social butterfly with plans of becoming an architect and studying abroad in Florence. She volunteered with Habitat for Humanity and hoped to build schools in underprivileged communities one day. She had a whole life unlived. Looking into her mother’s spent eyes, I saw a mix of pain and joy. I was close enough to feel like something, yet different enough to feel like nothing. I didn’t know what to say but ask to see a photo of Clara. “Oh, you probably won’t see it because no one ever thinks they look like other people, but alright,” she said. She fumbled through her purse and pulled out a crisp photo from her wallet of Clara curling her arms around a big, fluffy golden retriever. We had similar hair, build, style and overall look. She even squinted one eye more than the other when she smiled, a habit I found impossible to break. It could have been me in that photo. “Do you see it? You see it, right? I’m not crazy, right?” Clara’s mother asked. My co-worker and I agreed. We were met with the quietest sign of satisfaction that was less than a smile but more of a soul-filling look. It was one of those looks that made me feel changed or known, or somewhere in between. One of those looks that imprinted in my identity more than the way people who looked at me every single day. Peering down for a moment, I caught a glimpse of my reflection in the milk-steamer and felt grateful for the face looking back at me. Clara’s mother half-smiled and grabbed her latte on her way out. Before she left, she had one more thing to say, “Call your mom.