On brief encounters and the paradox of lingering a little longer than they were meant to.
My mind is a library, with a quiet corner reserved for an archive of brief moments, random faces and forgotten places, each carefully preserved, as though it held a quiet significance only my heart could recognize.
I often find myself romanticising the ordinary; an aesthetic cafe I stumbled upon while wandering unfamiliar streets, a scientific idea that captivated my curiosity for hours or strangers with whom I shared a brief but meaningful connection before our paths quietly diverged.
Some may think it’s silly to hold on to things that seem so insignificant. But my mind has collected a million of these little fragments, carefully tucked away for no reason other than the fact that they made me feel something.
Because what’s the point of living if I can’t romanticise life for everything it brings, whether grand or ordinary?
And what’s the point of having a heart if it cannot feel deeply for all that it witnesses?
Lately, I’ve been thinking about someone I met on a train journey a while back.
Not in the sense of longing for him or wondering what could have been. What lingers isn’t possibility, but curiosity.
I wonder what he’s doing right now, in this very moment, in another city, while I sit here drinking my coffee and reminiscing about a conversation that lasted only a few hours.
How has life unfolded for him since that day? Did that brief encounter blur into the background of his memories, or does he still remember me?
I may never know.
I’ve often wondered why such a brief interaction still occupies a quiet corner of my mind. Why it lingered long enough to make itself at home. Why I keep replaying the conversation, laughing at the same jokes, feeling my heart grow lighter at the memory, and rewriting different endings to a story that was left beautifully unfinished.
It was a misty afternoon wrapped in a soft drizzle. I had boarded the train and was looking for my seat. Across from it sat a man with headphones on, sketching something in a small notebook, seemingly unaware of the passing landscape. The tiny strands of hair at his temples stirred gently in the breeze drifting through the open window. There was something oddly cinematic about the whole scene. I remember getting lost in it for a moment before quietly settling into my seat.
I’ve never been the kind of person who starts conversations with strangers. So I sat there, watching the rain blur the world beyond the window as tiny droplets kissed my face through the open frame. There was something deeply soothing about the weather, like hearing a familiar melody after years. The steady rhythm of the rain quieted the constant noise in my head, and for the first time in days, I wasn’t thinking about the work I’d left behind.
Every now and then, I would glance at him, curious about what he was drawing.
Eventually, he caught me looking. He took one side of his headphones off and smiled.
“Checking me out?”
I laughed, a little flustered.
“No… I was just trying to see what you were drawing.”
Without a word, he turned the notebook towards me.
“It is beautiful”, I said, silently admiring his talent.
It was a picture of an elderly couple sitting on a bench at a rain-soaked platform, watching a train approach.
Somehow, that single moment became the beginning of a conversation that lasted the entire journey.
We talked a lot, about everything from silly little things to politics, and everything in between, as though we’d known each other for years. He spoke passionately about his art, his research, science, sports, and how annoying the person in the next seat was for talking loudly on the phone. I told him about my writing, the books I loved, my work and the little pieces of my life that I don’t usually share with strangers.
There was something different about that, something effortless about sharing our inner worlds. No need to curate ourselves, no pressure to impress each other, no filtering our thoughts before they became words. The kind of conversation that makes you feel seen without trying too hard, understood without needing to explain everything.
Five hours disappeared without either of us noticing. Then we reached my station. I told him it was time for me to leave.
For a moment, neither of us said anything. It wasn’t awkward. It was a brief pause to acknowledge that the conversation had reached its natural end.
Neither of us asked for each other’s number or suggested staying in touch.
There was a moment of “what if” that passed between us as we exchanged a silent goodbye with our eyes, but neither of us dared to give it a voice.
As I walked away, I couldn’t help but wonder what he was thinking. Whether he hoped we’d meet again someday, whether he never wanted a beautiful memory to become anything more, or whether he was waiting for me to say something that might have changed the ending.
Fate never let our paths cross again. Maybe he moved on with his life, and I was just a passing face he had long forgotten.
Maybe not everything is meant to continue. Some are more beautiful when they remain untouched by the need to become anything more. Some people arrive not to stay, but to leave behind a piece of themselves within us, altering the way we see the world.
And among a million other things, this memory will also remain carefully preserved, waiting to find me again on a rainy afternoon.
I will travel again, meet new people, collect different stories, discover unfamiliar places, and gather a million more small moments. One by one, each will find its place in the little archive of my mind. Each will revisit me in unexpected moments, on rainy afternoons, golden hours and sleepless midnights, reminding me of what they once were.
The beauty of brief encounters lies in their impermanence, and perhaps that is why they remain alive long after they have bid goodbye. And perhaps that is enough.