I wasn’t supposed to be in Denver that week. My flight had been rerouted because of a storm over Chicago, and suddenly I had two extra days in a city I barely knew. It felt like a weird little gift — a chance to just wander around with no schedule, no meetings, no expectations. That first night, I found myself sitting in a tiny rooftop bar downtown, sipping on a beer, watching the sunset hit the glass buildings.
And that’s where I saw her.
She was at the table across from me, laughing with two friends. Not the polite kind of laugh, either. The kind that makes other people look over, just to figure out what’s so funny. She had that kind of energy that fills a space without trying. Our eyes met once, and I swear there was that half-second pause, the kind you only notice when your brain is screaming at you to say something.
I gripped my beer glass so tight my palms were sweaty. I even rehearsed a couple of opening lines in my head — something stupid like “Hey, what are you guys celebrating?” or “Great night for a rooftop, huh?” But my mouth stayed shut. I just sat there like an idiot, staring at the foam in my beer while my heart did its best drum solo.
When she got up to leave, she glanced my way again — not a long look, not some big movie moment, just enough to make me feel like there was something there. And then she was gone. No name, no phone number, no chance.
The next day, I couldn’t stop thinking about it. I walked the same streets, hoping I’d just randomly bump into her again like this was some kind of Netflix rom-com. Obviously, that didn’t happen. Instead, I spent those two days noticing how every little thing reminded me of her — the way someone laughed too loud in a coffee shop, the way the wind caught someone’s hair just right. I was basically haunted by a stranger.
On my last night there, I actually went back to that same bar. Same table, same beer, different night. I guess I thought if the universe had done me the favor of putting me there once, maybe it would do it again. But no. Just a bunch of accountants talking about their conference and a couple on an awkward first date.
Here’s the part that still sticks with me: I had the time. I had the chance. And I didn’t do a damn thing. There’s no real reason for it, no excuse. I just froze. And now, months later, I still think about her more than I probably should. I’ve dated since then, gone back to my normal life, but there’s something about a missed meeting that hits different. It’s not just about her — it’s about that version of me that didn’t take the risk.
People always say if it’s meant to be, it’ll happen. I don’t buy that anymore. Sometimes you get one shot, one random Tuesday night in a city you weren’t even supposed to be in, and that’s it. If you don’t take it, the moment’s gone. And sure, maybe she wouldn’t have been interested, maybe we’d have had one awkward conversation and laughed about it later. But at least I’d know. Instead, I’m just left with this perfect little mystery that lives rent-free in my head.
And honestly, it’s changed me a little. Since that night, I’ve tried to speak up when I feel that spark, even if it’s awkward, even if I crash and burn. At least then I get an answer instead of letting the moment loop in my head forever.
So yeah, maybe this is my way of putting it out into the world, just in case. If you were at a rooftop bar in Denver last May, wearing a denim jacket and laughing so hard the whole place turned to look at you — hey. I saw you. And I should’ve said something.
But I didn’t.
