I’m writing this because I can’t un-see you, the way you stood under that late afternoon sun by the green line on our city bus route in Boise. Maybe you don’t remember me — fine — but I remember you. And maybe I’ll never see you again. So yes, this is one of those “missed connections Boise” moments.
You had a blue backpack. Not a flashy one, just a plain navy-blue, slightly stretched at the corners, like the kind someone carries because they make a lot of late-night runs to the grocery store, or they’re always shifting from one job to the next, or maybe they come from a place where things don’t come easy so you hold on to what you’ve got. You had that backpack, slung lazily over one shoulder, and you were staring out the window of the bus — the one that rolls down Boise streets, past the red brick, past the shifting light, past the small dents people wear when they’ve quit trying to be perfect and just try to be human.
I boarded at the Stop 56 near the park, you at Stop 59 or 60 — I can’t quite remember which. But you got on at the same moment as I did. I sat two seats behind you. You were tuning your phone, probably loading some playlist, tapping lightly, the backpack dangling. I was thinking about how I had fifty emails to send, an overdue rent check, and also how I didn’t know the right words to say when you turned backwards, caught me looking, smiled shyly, and then looked back out the window. You spotted me once. I know you did, because I caught your glance; our eyes met for a fraction of a second. Then you, almost reflexively, gave a small wave — polite, easy, not forced. And then turned back to the window as the bus lurched forward.
That wave. That moment. It made my heart stop. Because in that one tiny gesture I saw possibility. Two imperfect strangers in a city that still feels big enough to hide in, yet small enough that for one moment our stories almost touched. But I didn’t approach you. I didn’t ask your name. I didn’t say, “Hey — nice backpack,” or even “Do you mind if I sit by you?” And now I’m kicking myself.
Here’s the thing. After we got off — you at the grocery-strip stop that has the faded neon sign, me one stop later — I waited, thinking I’d catch you somewhere along the sidewalk. But you turned right, I turned left. The moment was gone. Blinked and vanished.
Later that night, I played the scene on repeat. What if I had said something? What if I’d picked up a water bottle instead of scrolling my phone? What if I’d asked you about your backpack? I imagined you unpacking that backpack in your apartment, maybe dust motes dancing in the early evening light, maybe a cat somewhere curled up, maybe the hum of city-living around you. I imagined you smiling again at the bus ride tomorrow, or maybe being too tired to smile, because life hits hard sometimes. And I thought about how you left that window, the bus, the moment — and how I left it too. Missed it.
I don’t think you’re a fantasy. I think you were a real moment of connection in a city where connections feel rare. Boise isn’t New York where people stare each other down on the subway; it isn’t L.A. where everything is never quite real. It’s this in-between: quiet enough to hear your own doubts, but loud enough to drown them in ambient bus hum. I remember the light sliding through the big windows, hitting your hair in that way where you look like you might flick it back if you had a hand free. I remember the shade of your jacket: simple, olive maybe, with sleeves a little too long — like you borrowed it, or found it at a thrift spot, or maybe you aren’t the sort of person who cares too much about perfectly tailored sleeves. And that made you human. That made the moment human.
So now I write. I write hoping that maybe you’ll read this. Maybe you’ll scroll through a Craigslist “missed connections Boise” thread, or maybe you’ll see it on Instagram, or maybe a friend will share it. Maybe you’ll think, hey that was me. I was on that bus. I had the blue backpack. And maybe you’ll feel something too: the fleeting odd beauty of a wave. The ripple of what-if.
It’s weird how unimportant details become so huge when you want something to matter. How the angle of your phone screen, the crease of your jeans, the way you shifted your weight just before standing up — they all become story. I remember you stood up just as I did. I gave you more space. You said thanks — softly — to the old man behind us who asked for the seat, and you eased into the aisle. A quick nod to me. A little grin. Then you left.
And I sat there, watching the window until the bus curved away. I thought: If I’d stood up earlier, maybe we’d have talked. If I had asked “Where are you headed?” maybe you’d have said “Just home” and I’d have said “Me too” and boom, connection. But I didn’t. I kept the moment safe in silence. Because maybe I was afraid. Maybe I assumed you already had someone. Maybe I didn’t want to risk being rejected. But guess what — I risked even more by doing nothing: losing the moment entirely.
So here’s what I want you to know: you stuck in my head. You became a yes-maybe instead of a no-never. And I’m okay with that. I’ll carry the image of you with the blue backpack, the green line bus, the soft wave, the window and the uncertain light with me. And if our lives cross again — even if for a second — I hope I say hi.
To the person with the blue backpack: If you see this, drop a line. Even just a “hey” is enough. If you don’t: thank you. Thank you for the wave. Thank you for the moment. Because you reminded me that something matters. Even when we don’t seize it.
And somewhere, maybe I’ll be that person someone else didn’t wave to — and I’ll be the one looking over my shoulder, hoping someone writes it out. Hoping they found me, and that they were brave.
Missed connections Boise. One wave, a blue backpack, a city of possibilities.
