I didn’t plan on thinking about you past that night. Honestly, it was such an ordinary moment that it shouldn’t matter at all. But for reasons I can’t fully explain, it stuck. So here I am, typing this out like someone who owes the universe a follow up.

It happened around 10:45 p.m. at a QuickTrip off Harry Hines. The kind of spot people stop at when they’re tired, or hungry, or halfway through a day that felt longer than it should’ve been.

You were at pump 6. Eating Cheetos straight from the bag. Your car looked like mine probably looks to strangers: snacks, receipts, maybe a life lived mostly between work, errands, and attempts to rest.

I noticed you because you laughed at something on your phone. Not the normal polite laugh people use when they want others to think they’re fine. It was loud and real and unfiltered. The kind that surprises even the person laughing.

And my brain went straight to:
“God, I miss laughing like that.”

I was at the next pump pretending to scroll my phone but mostly staring at my reflection because that felt safer than acknowledging how strangely human that moment felt.

You had dark hair tied in a loose bun. A gray hoodie with a faded graphic I couldn’t read. Freckles. The kind people only notice if they pay attention.

When your tank clicked full, you didn’t immediately get in the car. You stood there a second longer, hand on the door, like you weren’t ready for the night to move forward yet.

For a split second, I almost said something. Something dumb and simple like:

“Rough day?”

Or:

“What was so funny?”

But hesitation has a way of making decisions for people.

And then you got in your car.

Our eyes met through the windshield for maybe a second. Not long. But enough to register:

I existed in your line of sight, and then I didn’t.

You drove off. No dramatic vibe. No slow fade. Just taillights turning into distance.

I finished pumping gas and sat in my car longer than necessary. Not upset. Not emotional. Just… thinking.

It was such a normal interaction that it almost felt fake to feel anything about it. People pass each other constantly. Airports. Freeways. Grocery checkout lines. Most of those moments go with zero significance. But every once in a while, someone stands out without trying.

Not because they’re extraordinary.

But because a specific minute in time made you pay attention.

Now, days later, I still remember small things I shouldn’t:

The silver star keychain hanging from your rearview mirror.
The way you brushed your thumb across your phone screen like you were waiting on something.
The way you seemed tired but still found something funny enough to laugh at.

If that was you at QT that night and by some ridiculous coincidence you’re reading this, I’m not expecting a movie ending. No dramatic reunion. No assumptions. No pressure.

I just wanted to acknowledge the moment instead of letting it stay a silent glitch in memory.

Because sometimes the regret isn’t that something ended.

It’s that something never had the chance to start.

So if fate is lazy but not totally indifferent and we end up at the same gas station again at an unreasonable hour, I’ll try to say something this time.

Even if it’s awkward.
Even if it’s small.
Even if it’s just:

“Hey. You were the one with the Cheetos.”

And if that never happens, then this is enough.

A short encounter.
A stranger remembered.
A moment that slipped.

Dallas is full of people. But somehow, on an ordinary night, one stood out.