I only went into the café for a quick coffee. Work had been one of those days where your brain just feels fried, and I wasn’t expecting anything other than the usual: a long line, the smell of roasted beans, and that soft hum of background chatter.
The bell above the door jingled, and that’s when I noticed him. He walked in like he owned no part of the day, completely unbothered by the line, by the people, by anything. I glanced up just in time to catch his eyes for a second. That’s all it took. My brain somehow short-circuited, and I swear my hand almost dropped my phone.
I tried to act like I was studying the menu. I mean, everyone does that, right? Pretend you’re focused on your choice while your heart is doing cartwheels. But in reality, I wasn’t thinking about coffee at all. I was thinking about him. About how random this moment was, and how for some reason, I wanted it to last longer.
He ended up in line behind me, and I caught bits of his order, low but perfectly audible. It’s ridiculous, but just hearing him talk—his voice, not even what he said—was enough to make me wish I’d been brave enough to stay and say something. Anything.
When my drink was ready, I picked it up, and our eyes met again. Barely two seconds. I wanted to smile. I wanted to say something clever or at least normal like, “Busy day, huh?” But instead, I just grabbed the cup and moved toward the door, faster than I should have. Classic. Human. Stupid me.
The bell jingled as I stepped out, and somewhere in the back of my brain, a voice yelled, “Go back! Just go back!” But of course, I didn’t. I walked faster. I avoided looking back. And somehow, even though my feet were moving, my chest felt like it had gotten stuck in that café for a few seconds too long.
When I got home, I put the coffee down and just stared at it. For a while, I think I didn’t even drink it. I kept replaying the few seconds of our eye contact, the faint smile, the way he held his hands while waiting. My imagination ran wild, like it always does.
The next day, I went back to the café. Totally casual, I told myself. Just a coffee, that’s all. He wasn’t there. The day after, I tried again, sitting in my usual corner, glancing toward the door every time it opened. Nothing. Not him, not even a glimpse.
After that, I still went back now and then. Not obsessively, not like a cliché stalker, but more out of habit—or maybe hope. You know, the kind that hits you in the chest when you see someone familiar in a crowd, only to realize it’s not them.
I keep wondering sometimes. What if I had smiled the first time? What if I’d said something, anything, like a joke about the line, or about how everyone in the café moves like they’re in slow motion? Would we have had a conversation? Exchanged names? Maybe become friends, maybe not. But now, it’s just this little fragment of time lodged in my head.
At night, I imagine it differently. In my head, I went back that first day, and we talked for a few minutes, nothing special, maybe about the coffee, maybe about something dumb, but it felt like a start. And then I wake up and remember that in reality, I didn’t. I left. And I probably never will see him again.
It’s funny and kind of pathetic when you think about it. I almost laugh at myself for getting so hung up over two brief encounters. Two glances, one line of dialogue that never happened, and yet here I am, staring at my empty coffee cup, feeling like I missed something big.
That’s what missing someone feels like. It’s not explosive or dramatic. It’s subtle, sneaky, and it hits you when the world is quiet. You catch yourself thinking about them while doing mundane stuff: walking your dog, sitting on the subway, scrolling through your phone. You imagine a different timeline where you had said something, where things were slightly different, and it hurts because it’s so close, yet completely out of reach.
And the worst part? You know it doesn’t matter. He probably doesn’t remember me. He probably wasn’t thinking about me. He’s just some stranger who happened to step into my life for two seconds. But those two seconds? They’ve stuck.
So yeah, I go back sometimes, even though I know nothing will happen. I sit with my coffee, look around, pretend I’m just there for the drink. And every time I catch someone’s eyes by accident, my heart does that little jump, and for a fleeting moment, I imagine it’s him. But of course, it’s not. It never is.
That’s the thing about missed connections. It’s not about the person, really. It’s about that tiny, perfect moment that slips through your fingers and refuses to let go. It’s the memory of what could have been, dangling in your chest, making you pause, making you ache just a little.
And sometimes, that’s enough to keep you going back, hoping, wishing, wondering.
