You — yes, you with the soft laugh and the light jacket slung over one arm — I’ve been thinking about you. I don’t know your name. I don’t know your story. But I remember that moment in Odessa, Texas when our worlds brushed together, and for whatever ridiculous reason, I didn’t stop and say something I knew I should.
You were standing by the edge of that small private airstrip where a handful of loud engines revved and tourists clicked pictures of the sunset over the Permian Basin. I swear to you — the sky was a pure pale gold, the kind you see in postcards but rarely in person, and you looked just… present. Like you were living the scene with awareness rather than just walking through it. I sat on the concrete barrier, eating a shitty sandwich from a gas-station deli, trying not to drop mustard on my shirt. You took off your earbuds, glanced at the runway, and then you looked at me, briefly, as if you noticed I existed.
My heart did that stupid leap thing. I thought: I should move away. I should hold on. I should say hi. Instead I tucked my hands into my pockets and watched you walk away.
I wonder: have you been back to that strip since? Do you ever think about the loud propellers, the orange light, how the wind smelled faintly of diesel and drybrush? Because I keep going—alone, though I don’t want to—and I keep hoping you’ll come back, or I’ll spot you again.
Maybe you’re someone who doesn’t believe in destiny. Maybe you roll your eyes at romantic clichés. But here’s what I believe: some connections don’t happen on purpose. They happen in a single breath of time, and you either grab them or you regret them. I didn’t grab ours. Maybe you did. Maybe you chose to walk away because you sensed I wasn’t ready. That’s okay. I’m not mad. I’m just realising now that I was missing more than I thought.
When you passed me, you smelled like dry grass and chlorine—an odd combo maybe, but in that moment your smell was part of the scene and I’ll remember it. You had a scar on your left forearm; I noticed the light hit it just so. You didn’t show it off. You didn’t hide it. You just existed. And I thought: that’s someone who’s lived. And here I am, a guy who’s discovering how little he knows about himself.
It’s weird to write this, to expect nothing and hope everything. But I want you to know: the little things you did mattered. The way you said “excuse me” when passing with your bag. The gentle nod to the pilot. The abandoned-look you carried after you’d watched the plane lift into that big golden sky.
Since that day I’ve been back to that barrier. I’ve watched other people watch the planes. I’ve tried to find you again. I’ve eyed your jacket’s cut, your stance, your hair playing in the wind. And I realise: I wasn’t just looking for you. I was looking for the version of myself that could step forward, say hi, ask your name, maybe invite you to watch the next take-off with me. Instead I let the moment slide.
So here we are, in this messy place of maybe. I hope you’re reading this somewhere, maybe scrolling through missed-connections posts, maybe glancing at forums late at night. I hope you’ll remember a tallish guy, a messy sandwich, a short “hello” that died in his throat. And maybe you’ll smile at the absurdity, the un-forced magic of it all.
If you ever decide to come back to that spot, I’ll be there. Same concrete barrier, same shitty deli sandwich (but nicer this time), same hope that you’ll sit beside me and we’ll watch how the sun dips and the propellers blur and the sky ignites. And maybe, just maybe, this time I’ll talk.
You weren’t just a one-time face in a big Texas sky to me. You were a moment. A breath. A chance. And I hope you find it in yourself to recognise that, even if you never come back. Because I will. I’ll stay. And I’ll hope. And if you do walk by again, I’ll be ready.
— That guy at the barrier.
