It was just a regular Tuesday night, the kind where you’re not expecting anything interesting to happen. I was still in my work clothes, tie loosened, hair a mess from a long day, just looking for something quick to eat before heading home. There’s this taco truck that parks near the edge of my neighborhood, and I figured why not?
I wasn’t in the best mood. They were out of carnitas, which was my whole reason for stopping there, so I ordered something else and tried not to look as annoyed as I felt. And then you stepped into line behind me.
You were on the phone at first, laughing about something, and I swear the sound of it cut right through all the traffic noise around us. It was the kind of laugh that makes you want to smile even when you’re in a bad mood.
You hung up, and that’s when it happened — that quick glance. Just one second, maybe less, but it felt like enough time to notice everything. You had that kind of presence that makes the world go a little quieter.
We didn’t say anything to each other. Not one word. I thought about it, though. I thought about saying something dumb, like asking if you knew if the salsa verde was too spicy, or if this was your first time at that truck. Anything, really.
Instead, we just stood there in the glow of the truck’s neon sign, surrounded by the smell of grilled meat and cilantro, waiting. I could feel the warmth of the night air, hear the buzz of the generator, even the sound of your shoes scuffing against the pavement. Funny how you notice the smallest details when you’re in a moment like that.
When they called my order, I froze for a second. This was my chance. I could’ve stayed, asked you if you wanted to grab a seat on the curb and eat together. But instead, I smiled too quickly and took my bag.
Halfway down the block, I turned around. You were still there, looking at your phone, completely unaware that you’d just become the main character in someone else’s little story.
That was it.
It’s been weeks, and somehow that moment keeps replaying in my head. The glow of the lights, the smell of the food, the way the night felt warmer than it should’ve been. It’s weird, because it wasn’t even a conversation — it wasn’t anything, really — but somehow it stuck.
Maybe it’s because moments like that don’t happen often. The world is full of people, but how often do you feel that little spark with a complete stranger? That quick reminder that you’re alive, that the universe is still capable of surprising you on a random Tuesday night?
I keep thinking about what would’ve happened if I’d stayed. Maybe we would’ve talked about nothing in particular, laughed about how they were out of half the menu, or argued about which taco filling is the best. Maybe it wouldn’t have gone anywhere at all. But at least I wouldn’t be stuck with this what-if playing on a loop in my head.
And yet, there’s something kind of bittersweet about it. A missed connection like that makes you pay attention to life in a way you don’t normally do. You look up from your phone more, notice the people around you, wonder what stories they’re carrying.
Maybe I’ll run into you again one day. Or maybe I won’t, and this little memory will just stay what it is — a perfect, unfinished moment.
