I keep thinking about a night in Spokane that shouldn’t matter as much as it does. It happened on one of those early fall evenings when the air feels colder than the calendar says it should be, the kind that makes every sound travel a little farther. I wasn’t planning anything special. I was just trying to get home before the temperature dropped even more. But then you showed up, and for some reason the whole night rearranged itself around that moment.

It started at the Spokane Arena parking lot, long after most people had cleared out. There’d been a minor-league hockey game earlier, and the place still smelled like warm pretzels and spilled beer even though the concession lights were already off. I wasn’t there for the game. I had been meeting someone who ended up canceling last minute, which meant I was just walking across a nearly empty lot with my hands shoved deep into my jacket pockets, wondering why I even bothered coming out.

You were sitting on the hood of an old silver Tacoma, tapping your heel against the bumper like you were keeping time with a song only you could hear. You had this bright red windbreaker on, the kind that made you easy to spot even in the dark. I don’t know why I looked over. Maybe because you looked like you were waiting for someone too.

I didn’t think you’d talk to me. Most people don’t strike up conversations in parking lots at night. But you did. You said something about how the temperature always drops at night in Spokane, even earlier in the season than it should. I laughed because it was true and because you sounded like someone who’d lived here your whole life. You had that tone people get when they’re half annoyed by a place but also weirdly loyal to it.

We talked about everything that didn’t matter. The way the river always looks dark no matter the time of day. How Spokane drivers seem to forget every winter that snow exists. How the city has exactly two moods: either it’s unbelievably quiet or it feels like everybody crawled out at once.

At one point, you mentioned you were waiting for your brother who worked event security. Something about him always taking forever to clock out. I said I was thinking of heading home, but I didn’t move. You didn’t call me out on it. You just kept talking, letting the conversation stretch like a rope between us.

It was such a normal moment that it shouldn’t feel important. But it does. Maybe because real connection now usually happens online, in comments or messages that disappear before you remember who you were talking to. Meeting a stranger in a parking lot and actually talking felt like some kind of glitch in the system. Like something that wasn’t supposed to happen but did anyway.

You asked what I was doing there that night. I told you honestly: I didn’t know anymore. You laughed, and it wasn’t patronizing. It sounded like you got it. Like you’ve been in that same place of trying to figure things out without telling anyone you’re trying to figure things out.

Your brother finally walked out one of the arena side doors, waving his clipboard around like he owned the place. You hopped off the hood and said something like, Well, that’s my cue. You didn’t make a big goodbye out of it. You didn’t ask my name. I didn’t ask yours. I still don’t know why.

It wasn’t dramatic. There wasn’t some long look or a moment of hesitation. You just left. And I stood there staring at the empty space where that Tacoma had been parked, wondering why I didn’t say anything. Maybe because the moment felt too delicate, like speaking too directly would crack it open and send it falling apart. Maybe because I didn’t think it meant anything until it already passed.

I’ve been trying to figure out why I keep replaying that night. Maybe because it felt like two people who weren’t supposed to cross paths did, and then both of them walked away thinking about it more than they expected to. And that’s the thing about this city. Spokane looks quiet from the outside, but there’s something about living here that makes random moments stick, like the place itself is always watching and storing away every strange little interaction.

Sometimes I wonder if you’ve thought about that conversation since. Maybe you haven’t. Maybe it was just a way to kill time while waiting for your brother. But you were easy to talk to, and that’s rare. You looked right at me when you spoke, not over my shoulder, not at your phone. Like the moment we were in was enough.

I keep thinking about one detail. The windbreaker. That bright red color. It wasn’t stylish or anything. It was simple, almost outdated. But it made you stand out against the empty lot and the dim arena lights. I’ve driven past people on Division or around Browne’s Addition thinking I spotted the same shade of red, only to realize it wasn’t you.

I still check missed connections posts sometimes. I know that sounds ridiculous, but Spokane is one of those cities where you actually might see someone again if the timing hits right. It’s small enough for coincidences but big enough that you can miss someone forever if you’re even slightly off track.

So here it is. The moment I didn’t take. The one I’m still thinking about for reasons that don’t make sense even to me.

If you were the one sitting on the silver Tacoma in the empty arena lot that cold fall night wearing a red windbreaker, talking about nothing and somehow making it feel like something, I hope you see this.

And if you don’t, that’s fine too. Maybe some moments are meant to stay suspended exactly where they happened, untouched and unfinished.

Still, if you’re out there somewhere in Spokane, I hope you know that for one weird, quiet night, talking to you made this city feel a little less lonely.