I’m not sure why this memory keeps circling back, the way radio static sometimes fades and then snaps into clarity when you’re driving through the backroads of New Hampshire. Maybe it’s because moments like this never really let go. They sit somewhere between what happened and what almost did.

It was late August, one of those days when the humidity finally gives up and the air feels like a clean slate. I was heading toward the coast, not for anything special, just because sometimes you need to be close to the ocean to remember what breathing feels like. Route 4 was doing its usual thing, stretching on forever, dotted with roadside antique places and old motels that look like they’ve been waiting for stories for decades.

I stopped at this random rest area near Durham, the kind where the vending machines always look like they’re powered by hope rather than electricity. I wasn’t planning to stay long, just stretch my legs and shake off that weird road-trip stiffness. That’s when I saw you.

You were leaning against an old Subaru that looked like it had survived at least three cross-country trips and a couple of questionable decisions. You had a map spread across the hood, not a phone, not a GPS, an actual paper map. I couldn’t help but comment on it because honestly, who still travels like that?

You laughed, said something about how getting lost on purpose was the whole point of your trip. You were doing this week-long wandering thing across NH, chasing towns you’d never heard of and dirt roads that didn’t promise anything. You told me your name, and I told you mine, and for some reason the whole conversation felt like it had been waiting to happen.

There was nothing romantic about the setting. Trucks roaring by, a family arguing about whether they left their sunscreen at home, a guy walking his dog who kept trying to eat discarded french fries from the pavement. But somehow our conversation cut through all of it. You told me you were trying to hit every small diner in the state and take a picture of each breakfast plate, then make a collage of “the soul of New Hampshire in eggs and bacon.” It sounded ridiculous, but you made it sound like a mission that mattered.

I asked where you were heading next. You shrugged and said you’d know when you got there. I remember thinking that people like you don’t show up often, the kind who move through the world like they’re tuning into frequencies everyone else forgot to listen for.

We talked about everything and nothing. About how summers in New England always feel like they’re apologizing for ending too soon. About how towns here can look quiet from the outside but feel electric once you step in. About how sometimes you meet people while traveling who feel strangely familiar, even though you’ve never seen them before.

Then something shifted. A gust of wind flipped the edges of your map, and you grabbed it with this quick reflex that made you laugh again. I checked the time and realized I’d been standing there way longer than planned. You said you needed to hit a gas station before heading north. I said I should get going too.

We didn’t exchange numbers. It didn’t feel necessary in the moment, almost like writing down a dream before you’re fully awake. You waved as you pulled out, windows down, map fluttering, radio loud enough that I could hear the guitar riff even after you merged back onto the road.

I figured that would be it. A weird little footnote in the middle of an ordinary day.

But over the next few weeks, you kept showing up in the strangest ways. Not literally. More like in the places that reminded me of you. A diner sign glowing in the early morning light. A car that looked like yours parked outside an old gas station. A paper map tucked into a tourist rack at a motel. I kept wondering if you ever made that collage. Or if you got lost on purpose the way you said you wanted to.

New Hampshire is small, but not small enough that you just stumble into people twice without meaning to. Still, I checked sometimes. At rest stops, at diners, at those random ocean overlooks people forget about in September. I wasn’t searching for you exactly, just… aware of the possibility.

There’s something about missed connections that doesn’t feel like missing at all. It feels more like unfinished business that lives in the back pocket of your memory, soft around the edges but stubborn enough to stay. Not painful, not dramatic, just this quiet echo of “what if.”

Some people say these moments happen so we can learn something about timing. Others say they happen to remind us to pay attention. Honestly, I don’t know what this one was supposed to teach me. Maybe nothing. Maybe everything.

But on the off chance that you stumble across this — maybe while you’re on another one of those wandering trips, maybe while you’re looking up something completely unrelated — I just want to say this:

I hope the road treated you well.
I hope your Subaru is still holding on.
I hope you found every diner you were looking for, and maybe even some you weren’t.
And if you ever come across a rest stop off Route 4 where the vending machines still flicker and the air smells like pine and ocean mixed together, just know that someone out here remembers that afternoon like it was more than an accident.

If somehow this reaches you — if somehow this rings a bell — maybe that moment wasn’t as random as it felt.

And if not, well… that’s the thing about missed connections in NH. They always leave just enough space for possibility.