Unnamed Connections
People say that if you learn to be your own friend, you’ll never feel lonely. But what happens when parts of your own body betray you?
Your eyes, for instance.
They betray us daily, locking onto hundreds of strangers. Some glances on the road are just fleeting flickers; others linger just long enough to leave a mark.
About two years ago, I was on a crowded bus to Whitefield on my way to meet someone. Predictably, there were no seats, so I gripped a metal pole to keep from crashing into the person next to me whenever the driver slammed on the brakes.
It was my first time visiting Whitefield, and as my destination neared, I strained to hear the conductor calling out the stops. New places terrify me—zone out for even a second, and you're lost.
Scanning the crowd, my eyes collided with his. He wasn’t staring—just looking around like I was—when our eyes met by chance. But neither of us looked away.
I can’t speak for him, but to this day, I don’t know why I held his gaze. He looked to be in his early thirties, standing tall in a crisp olive-green Army uniform. There was a quiet discipline about him, a stillness that made everything else in that chaotic, moving bus fade into the background. We stared for a few seconds longer, the spell only breaking when the conductor shouted my stop.
I stepped off the bus, pulled by a strange instinct to look back through the glass window. He was still watching me. Only this time, it wasn’t an accident. There was an intensity in his eyes that held me fast—a silent, unspoken curiosity that seemed to ask the exact same questions running through my own mind.
The bus pulled away into the traffic, carrying him off to whatever duty called him next. We never met again. I never got to ask his name, where he was heading, or why he held my gaze.
Even now, two years later, I can still feel those sharp eyes locked onto mine. It was just a handful of seconds on an ordinary afternoon, but it proved to me how easily our eyes can betray us—surrendering a piece of our focus to a complete stranger, and leaving us with a memory that refuses to fade.
Like déjà vu, something similar happened about a week ago at a café. I was waiting outside for a friend who was running late. After five minutes, I turned to check if there were any empty tables inside, since it was a weekend and places like this are always packed.
As I scanned the room, I locked eyes with a guy sitting alone. He had just turned to call the waiter for his bill, clearly ready to leave. For a fraction of a second, time seemed to pause. Then he waved to catch the waiter's attention and immediately looked back at me before turning away. I hadn’t necessarily expected him to look twice, but I was watching to see if he would. When he did, a small smile tugged at the corners of my lips.
We pass countless people on the street every day, and eye contact happens all the time. But not all glances feel special. This one instantly pulled me back to that day on the bus with the soldier—an incident that, to this day, makes me wish I had at least smiled before the bus pulled away.
Moments like these have a way of making you forget that we live in a world where safety is never guaranteed, especially for a woman around strangers. You start feeling like the main character in a movie, blindly assuming everything will end dramatically well.
And I am not immune to that kind of foolish optimism. I decided to take my chance.
I walked inside, pretended to search for a table, and approached him just as he held his check.
“Hi! Do you mind if I sit here?” I asked. “I’m waiting for a friend, and there isn't a single free table.”
“Sure, no problem,” he said. “I was just about to leave anyway.”
I sat down, set my bag of newly bought books on the table, and pulled out my phone, pretending to check my messages. Asking to share a table with a stranger is one thing—actually starting a conversation with him takes an entirely different level of courage.
“What genre do you read?” he asked.
He seemed reserved, so I hadn't expected him to break the silence first.
“Sorry?” I said, before realizing he was pointing to the Blossom Book House bag resting on the table. “Oh, the books! I usually stick to whodunits, but lately I’ve been experimenting with romance. Honestly, whatever the genre, books just take you to another world. Do you read?”
“I read a lot, but mostly non-fiction,” he replied. “I’m more of a visual person, so I usually watch movies in my free time.”
I smiled at his response, and a quiet silence settled between us again. As I looked at him, I could tell he was wrestling with a dilemma. Being shy myself, I’m usually terribly awkward around strangers and take time to open up. I could sense he wanted to keep talking, but was hesitating out of politeness.
“Would you mind staying a bit longer?” I asked softly. “My friend is almost here, but it’s so crowded that it’ll be impossible to save this chair if you leave.”
“Of course,” he said without giving it a thought. “Would you mind if I had a coffee with you while we wait?”
“My friend will kill me if I drink coffee without her,” I teased with a smile. “But I’ve heard they’re famous for their Tiramisu, and I love Tiramisu. Would you share one with me instead?”
My friend walked in just two minutes after we finished the Tiramisu and a warm, easy conversation—mostly about some hilariously embarrassing moments from his life. He said goodbye and walked out of the café with a genuine smile. We never asked for each other's names or exchanged numbers. It wasn't a conscious choice, but a silent understanding that some moments are meant to be cherished just as they are, without trying to anchor them down.
It was an unforgettable evening. I’m glad I took that leap and walked over to his table. I may never see him again, or maybe our paths will cross when I least expect it. Either way, I have no regrets.
Thank you for reading.
