I saw you, but we didn’t talk—and I’ve been replaying that day ever since. So I’m posting this letter to the universe, hoping you might see it, and maybe shake your head and smile—or maybe roll your eyes at how ridiculous “missed connections” can feel.
You were sitting behind me on that green electric scooter in Echo Park, near Sunset Boulevard, midday. Sun shining, music faint in your earbuds, you glancing down at your phone, then up at the skyline. You had on a faded denim jacket, and your backpack looked nearly new, dark olive color with a little patch—a compass rose design—on the front flap. When you smiled at the kid chasing his dog along the sidewalk, the scooter’s wheels slipped slightly on the paint of the bike lane. You raised your eyebrows, chuckled, and lifted a hand like you were saying “hey, careful.” That little gesture stayed with me.
I was walking east on Sunset, headphones tucked in my pocket, phone in hand navigating to a meeting. I watched you from the corner of my eye as your scooter idled beside a food-truck I thought looked like the one that sells pupusas. I remember thinking: I wonder what your story is. Are you new to L.A., just arrived chasing some dream? Or have you lived here forever and you’re just on your way to… I don’t know… whatever it is that people ride scooters to when they’ve grown lazy about a car.
I considered stopping you. Something like: “Green scooter looks solid. You riding the Xero City route or just cruising?” But I didn’t. Because: idiot, shy city-kid brain. Because you had your headphones and maybe didn’t want to be interrupted. Because I told myself I had somewhere to be. Because I told myself you’d still be there, waiting. And you weren’t—just a minute later you turned left into the bike lane and zipped away, like a little green arrow cutting through the afternoon.
The weird thing? I don’t regret seeing you or not stopping you. I regret the space between. The “what if”. I regret all the invisible things I chose instead of saying something. I regret the thought that we might never intersect again. Because for a moment—just one of those seconds—I felt something. A recognition? A flicker of possibility.
Maybe you were thinking about something else entirely—your day, your errands, your playlist. Maybe you were looking forward to meeting a friend, or maybe you were alone and enjoying that freedom of L.A. when a ride on an e-scooter gives you the whole street. Maybe you’ll never know this whole monologue exists. And maybe I’ll never see you again. But this is me trying to reach across the gap.
Because here’s what I realized: missed connections aren’t just about romance. They’re about willingness. About being awake in a moment. About the possibility that two people, unknowing of each other, can share a brief tilt of consciousness—and then vanish. And what if we don’t vanish? What if we’d said hi? What would happen? Would we laugh about how odd it was to meet via a green scooter in Echo Park? Would we exchange songs on our phones? Would we end up riding the same green scooter together? Or would we realize we were completely different people and vanish all over again anyway?
I guess I’m okay with that latter possibility. Because even this moment—this brief mention of you in my mind—feels like something. It reminds me that life in LA is not only about deadlines and hustle and traffic and app notifications. It’s about eyes meeting, moments shared, the possibility of “maybe”. It’s about the scooter hitting the paint, slipping, you raising your hand, me watching. It’s about the city refusing to let everything pass without notice.
If you’re reading this—green-scooter person with the denim jacket and the olive backpack—maybe you’ll smile. Maybe you’ll stop by this thread, or this blog, or scroll through and think: “That was me.” And maybe you’ll leave a note: “Yes, that was me—didn’t expect that pause.” Or maybe you simply ride on, and life keeps being life. And that’s okay too.
But if you do stop, I’ll say: Hi, I’m the guy who walked by and looked at you a little too long, who promised himself he would say something but got stuck. If you want to try—let’s ride our own green scooters next time (I’ll pretend to have one). We’ll pick a spot near the lake in Echo Park and watch the sunset hit the downtown skyline, and see where that moment goes. If not—I’ll just keep walking by, noticing the little things: a scooter wheel slipping, someone’s backpack patch, a smile at the dog chase. Because those are the things I’ll remember.
Here’s to the possibility we didn’t take—and maybe one we still can.
