You know those moments that don’t feel important until years later? The ones you replay when you can’t sleep, wondering if they meant something more? I had one of those, back when everything smelled like late-summer grass and cheap laundry detergent, and the biggest thing on my mind was whether my ID card still had enough dining dollars left for breakfast.
It started during move-in week. Everyone was sweaty, awkward, dragging mini-fridges up stairs that looked like they were built in the 1800s. I remember her because she dropped a box of picture frames right outside the dorm entrance. The glass shattered everywhere, and while people just stepped over it, I stopped to help. She laughed in this sort of half-embarrassed way, brushed a strand of hair off her forehead, and said, “Guess that’s one way to start college.”
We picked up the pieces together, literally. Her name was Leah. She was from Oregon, majoring in environmental science. She talked with her hands and said “like” too much. I remember that. And the thing is, I wasn’t even trying to flirt—I just liked that she seemed like the kind of person who actually looked at you when you talked. You don’t realize how rare that is until you’re surrounded by people all scrolling through the same social apps pretending to be busy.
We bumped into each other a few more times that semester. At the campus recycling station, in line for the dining hall, once at a midnight volleyball game. Every time it was brief—two or three minutes of conversation, nothing that would make a movie montage. But somehow, each time, it felt like something was just slightly unfinished, like we were supposed to keep talking and didn’t.
Then winter came, and everything slowed down. Finals hit, everyone went home, and when spring rolled around, Leah wasn’t there. Rumor was she transferred. No one really knew where. And I didn’t ask. Maybe because I didn’t want to seem like I cared too much. Maybe because I didn’t want to know.
Years passed. New dorms, new classes, new friends. Life started filling in all the blank spaces. But every now and then, I’d walk by that same dorm entrance—the one with the chipped step and the busted railing—and remember her crouched down next to me, laughing over broken picture frames. I never said it out loud, but I always kind of wished I had.
Fast forward five years. I was visiting campus for homecoming, mostly to pretend I hadn’t aged out of college energy. The place looked smaller. The new freshman were wearing the same thrifted hoodies and the same lost expressions we once did. I was walking past the quad when I saw her.
It took me a second to believe it was really her. She was standing under a tree, talking to a group of students, probably giving some sort of guest talk or campus tour. Her hair was shorter, lighter, but the smile was the same—unhurried, real. I thought about walking over. I even took a few steps in her direction. Then I stopped.
Because what do you say after five years? “Hey, remember when I helped you pick up glass shards and then failed to ever ask for your number?” Sounds pathetic. So I just stood there, half-hidden behind a tree, watching her laugh with the students like she belonged there again. When she looked up, for a split second, I thought her eyes met mine. Or maybe I just wanted them to. Either way, she smiled, the kind of smile that could have meant anything or nothing at all.
I walked away.
That night, back at my hotel, I did what everyone does—I searched her name online. Found a LinkedIn profile, a few tagged photos, an article about her research on coastal ecosystems. I hovered over the “Connect” button for maybe ten full minutes before closing the tab. Because here’s the thing: sometimes connection isn’t about having someone’s number or being friends on a screen. Sometimes it’s just about the memory of what could’ve been, sitting quietly in the back of your mind like an unopened message.
A few weeks later, I got an alumni email. Buried in a list of campus announcements was a link titled “Campus Missed Connections — Reconnect With Fellow Alumni.” It was some goofy initiative from the student newspaper. You could post a short note, anonymous or not, about someone you met but lost touch with. Most were lighthearted—stuff like “To the guy who stole my umbrella outside the gym, I still want it back.” But I wrote something different.
“To the girl who dropped picture frames outside Birch Hall, fall of 2018. You laughed when I helped you clean up the mess. You said college was off to a dramatic start. I never got to say that I liked your laugh. Hope life’s been kind.”
I hit submit. No name, no email, nothing. Just words floating into the void. I figured no one would ever see it. But the next morning, when I checked the site again, there was a new reply under mine.
“Maybe it was meant to start that way. Hope you’re still helping people pick up broken things.”
No name. Just that. And yeah, maybe it wasn’t her. Maybe it was some random person messing around online. But that didn’t matter. I smiled, closed the laptop, and let it go.
Because that’s what Campus Missed Connections really is, right? Not a place to rekindle some lost love story, but a quiet reminder that, at least for a moment, two lives brushed against each other—and that was enough.
