There’s this moment – you know it – when everything in your gut says “this is it,” and then somehow it slips through the cracks. I had that moment last June at Sunset Beach in California. And let me just say – it remains the single most vivid “what if” of my twenty-eight years.
It was one of those perfect late-summer evenings, golden hues sinking slowly into the waves, and I’d just wrapped up a long day shooting a promotional video for a travel startup. With camera gear stowed and the sun doing its magic, I walked barefoot across the boardwalk toward the shoreline. Music drifted from a nearby outdoor lounge, kids were flying kites, and the salty air felt like a reset button. Within ten minutes of being there, I noticed her.
She was standing at the water’s edge, waist-deep in the surf, arms raised slightly as though the waves were whispering something to her. She wore a yellow sundress that caught the light, turning translucent where the water lapped. She laughed – a genuine laugh, not just expected joy – and her eyes followed a seagull diving into the sea. That laugh? It pulled me in.
I almost approached her. I could’ve. There was a lull in the crowd, the twilight making everything soft, and I remember thinking: “Go. Say hi. Ask what she’s thinking about.” But instead, I paused. I told myself, “You’re tired. You’ve worked too hard. Don’t mess this up.” I watched as she turned and walked away, tangled hair running down her back, heading toward the pier lights. And just like that, my chance evaporated.
I wandered after her…but not close enough to catch up. I took small steps, started to plan something clever like “Hey – that laugh you just let loose made my evening” – but by the time I reached the end of the boardwalk, she was gone. The lounge lights behind me glittered, the waves kept folding in, but she vanished into the night.
I didn’t go in pursuit, though part of me regretted that right away. I told myself I’d call it fate. She wasn’t meant for me. Yet, the next morning something nudged me out of bed early. I returned to the same stretch of sand before dawn, hoping—somehow—that footprints in the wet sand might point to her, or maybe the tide would have erased them, as if the moment never existed.
I sat there, letting the sky shift from navy to pale blue, and I thought about missed chances. Not the kind people talk about lightly, as in “missed my bus” or “left my keys,” but the kind that drills into your chest. The kind that keeps you checking “what if?” like it’s a loop you can’t pause. I realized what I’d lost: not someone random, but a potential story. The story of “two strangers, one summer dusk, an unspoken connection.”
Later that day, I tried to fill the void: I went for tacos, browsed vinyl records, chatted up the bartender. But everything felt muted. The laugh I heard still echoed. Her yellow dress and the way the light bent around her had become this image I couldn’t shake. I imagined what I could’ve said: “Beautiful evening, right? I noticed your laugh. What were you thinking about when you raised your arms and let the waves talk?” Instead, silence.
Over the next few days I replayed that scene: the boardwalk breeze, the waves chasing the shoreline, the light in her eyes. I wondered: did she go home right away? Did she have someone waiting? Was she just passing through town like I was? And there it was underneath everything: the one truth I keep trying to deny. I didn’t act. I didn’t take the risk.
Fast-forward to now and I still hold onto it. Not in a sad way, but in a curious way. The world is stuffed with chances. We see them flashing and we sometimes freeze. Because we’re tired, because we’re uncertain, because we’re thinking about the next call or text we forgot to send. That evening taught me how easily a missed chance becomes part of who you are. It shifts you. It teaches you.
And I’ve asked myself: what changed after that moment? For one thing, I stopped telling myself I’ll make time “later.” I started saying yes when the sun is setting and the boardwalk is calling. I started talking to people in those blurry transitional moments—on trains, in airport lounges, by the pool—even knowing it might not turn into anything lasting. Because that’s the point. It’s not always the outcome, but the doing.
I now carry a tiny notebook—yes, real pen and paper—where I jot down brief encounters: The man at the grocery checkout who sorted his apples unusually; the woman in neon running shoes who paused to sketch the skyline; the kid on the skateboard who dropped his phone, looked up embarrassed, and smiled like it was fine. The sketch of her at Sunset Beach is in there. I haven’t erased it. I gave it a name: “Sunset Girl, Yellow Dress.” She hasn’t sent me a sign. I haven’t bumped into her again. But I keep the image alive, not as regret, but as motivation.
Because if I hadn’t paused, I wouldn’t know how it feels to miss the beat of a perfect moment. And if I hadn’t felt it, I wouldn’t push myself now to catch chances when they come, even if they feel slightly risky or awkward. And maybe that’s the lesson: missed chances aren’t just about losing something—they’re about learning what matters. They’re about noticing the shift in your rhythm when you let the moment pass.
So here’s what I’d say to you, in this perfectly imperfect public diary: Look up from your phone when the light changes. Let your voice float into someone’s space. Ask that question you’re almost afraid to ask. Because later you might say, “I wish I had,” instead of “I’m glad I did.” And the difference between those two is everything.
That evening at Sunset Beach still lives in me. The tide came in, waves erased the footprints, and the night swallowed the yellow dress and the laugh. She’s probably got her own life story unfolding somewhere else. But in that moment, our paths grazed each other, and I hesitated. And now I carry the memory of that hesitation like a little spark. As a reminder that life’s best stories aren’t always the ones we get, but the ones we try to catch.
Next time you feel the light settle and someone else’s laughter pulls you in—don’t pause. Dive in. Say hi. Because maybe, just maybe, that’s your missed chance waiting to become your “I did,” and you’ll thank yourself for taking it.
