I can still see that night like it’s playing on a loop in my head.
It was one of those warm summer nights where the air feels alive — like something’s supposed to happen. My buddy had convinced me to go to this outdoor movie screening at the park. They were playing some goofy 90s comedy on a big inflatable screen, people everywhere with blankets and snacks, couples curled up like a rom-com cliché. I wasn’t there for the movie. Honestly, I wasn’t even sure why I went. Work sucked, my apartment felt too quiet, and I think part of me was just hoping something would happen to shake me out of my own head.
That’s when I saw her.
She was sitting two blankets away, hoodie way too big for her, hair a little messy like she hadn’t planned to be there either. She was laughing — not at the funny parts everyone else laughed at, but at those random dumb lines no one even noticed. And for some reason, her laugh made me laugh too.
At one point, she glanced over and caught me looking. And instead of doing that quick look-away thing, she just… smiled. It wasn’t a big smile, just this small, quiet one that felt like she’d let me in on a secret no one else got.
My heart was in my throat.
I told myself I’d talk to her after the movie. No pressure, just “hey, did you actually think that joke was funny?” Something stupid to get her talking. I had a whole conversation playing out in my head — us laughing, swapping names, maybe walking to our cars together.
Then the sky opened up.
Out of nowhere, it started to rain — not just a drizzle, but one of those sudden summer downpours that send everyone running. People grabbed their blankets and bolted. I scrambled too, still trying to keep her in sight. I saw her for half a second, hoodie pulled up, laughing as she tried to shake the water out of her hair.
And then she was gone.
By the time I got to the street, the crowd had thinned, and she was nowhere. I stood there, drenched, holding my half-eaten bag of popcorn like an idiot, scanning every direction like she’d just reappear if I waited long enough. She didn’t.
I walked around the block twice. Nothing.
The next day, I stalked the event’s Facebook page, scrolling through photos hoping to see her in the background somewhere. I didn’t. I even went back to the park the next weekend, just in case.
I never saw her again.
And that’s what kills me. She wasn’t just some random pretty girl. She felt like a sign — like the universe was handing me a moment, and I just stood there holding it until it slipped away.
Sometimes I wonder who she was. Did she live nearby? Was she just visiting? Does she ever think about that night, about the guy two blankets over who couldn’t get his act together?
It’s wild how one almost-conversation can stay with you for years. I’ve met plenty of people since then. I’ve had first dates, long nights, heartbreaks. But this — this not knowing — sticks deeper than any of them.
Because that night wasn’t about her. Not really. It was about me. It was about the version of me who hesitated. Who waited for the “right time” instead of just saying something — anything.
If I could go back, I’d do it different. I’d walk up to her before the first joke landed, before the rain started, before I had time to overthink everything. I’d ask her name, ask if she wanted to split some popcorn, ask if she wanted to stay and watch another stupid movie next week.
But I can’t. And that’s the thing about missed chances — they teach you the hard way that the perfect moment never comes. You either take the shot, or you live with the what-ifs.
And trust me, the what-ifs stay with you.
