I still think about that night sometimes. Not every day, not even every month—but it hits me in random moments. Like when I hear a song I can’t name but somehow know, or when the air smells like rain and sunscreen at the same time. It’s weird how a stranger can stick to your memory harder than some people you actually loved.
It was at this music festival in Tennessee. Middle of July. Hot enough to melt your soul. I went with two friends, mostly for the weekend escape and because we thought camping by the stage sounded “spiritual.” It wasn’t. It was sweaty, loud, and full of drunk college kids trying to find themselves in EDM drops.
She showed up on the second night.
We were standing near the smaller stage, the one that didn’t have the big screens or the fireworks—just a bunch of indie bands doing their thing. I remember being half-buzzed, holding a warm beer, when she squeezed through the crowd right next to me. She had this glitter on her cheeks, probably cheap festival stuff, but the way the stage lights hit her face—it looked like she was glowing.
She caught me looking.
“You like this band?” she shouted over the music.
“I don’t even know their name,” I said.
She laughed. “Me neither.”
We spent the next hour yelling small talk into each other’s ears. I found out she was from Colorado. She found out I couldn’t dance to save my life. Somewhere between songs, she took my hand and said, “Just move, nobody cares.”
So I did.
We danced like idiots, the kind of dancing you’d only do when you know no one will ever remember it. And when the final song hit, she turned toward me, pulled me close, and sang into my ear—off-key, loud, and beautiful.
That’s when I realized I was in trouble.
We walked back to the tents after the set ended. The crowd was thinning out, and the night air felt heavy with dust and sweat. She told me she was leaving early the next morning, catching a bus to meet friends in Nashville. I said we should hang out again before she left. She said, “Maybe.”
We sat on the hood of some random guy’s Jeep, sharing what was left of my cheap whiskey. She asked me if I ever felt like I was living someone else’s story, like my life was on autopilot. I said yeah, too quickly.
She smiled, like she knew I meant it.
Then she said, “Don’t let it stay that way.”
That was the last real thing she said to me.
The next morning, I woke up to sunlight and the sound of someone playing acoustic guitar badly outside my tent. My head was pounding, my phone was dead, and she was gone. Her tent was empty—no note, no name, no nothing.
I asked around. Nobody remembered seeing her. For a second I even thought I imagined her. But when I checked my wrist, there was still glitter stuck to my skin, mixed with sweat and dust.
I don’t know why I didn’t chase it. Maybe it was pride. Maybe it was fear. Or maybe I just thought the universe would hand me another chance. It didn’t.
I went back to that festival the next year. Same field, same stage, same smell of fried food and wet grass. I looked for her everywhere. Every face with glitter made my heart stop for a second. But she wasn’t there.
People like to say if it’s meant to be, it’ll find its way. I don’t buy that. Sometimes timing screws everything. Sometimes the right person shows up when you’re not the right version of yourself.
Now it’s been, what, five years? I’ve had relationships since then. Real ones. But none of them felt like that night. Maybe because that night never got the chance to turn into something real. Maybe because it existed in that perfect in-between—just long enough to matter, but not long enough to break.
Sometimes, when I can’t sleep, I think about what I’d say if I saw her again. I imagine bumping into her at some random airport bar, still wearing glitter like it’s armor. I’d probably say something stupid, like, “I still can’t dance.”
And maybe she’d laugh again.
Or maybe she wouldn’t even recognize me.
Either way, I think I’d thank her.
For one night that made me want to live my life like it was actually mine.
