The Stranger

by cynthiarendon

As a sometimes writer, I very often think about the realization that each random passerby is living a life as detailed, complex and vivid as my own. Just as I sometimes think that my and my family’s experiences could make an epic film, I’m sure that others feel the exact same way. And it is true, every person’s story is populated with their own ambitions, friends, routines, worries and, the fun part, the inherent craziness that seems to eternally dwell in our lives.

In reality, the person next to me in the indistinct car waiting for the light to change holds an epic story that is unfolding right in front of me, with elaborate passageways to thousands of other lives that I will never know existed. I, however, may only appear only once in this stranger’s story — not with a significant role, however, but more likely as an extra sipping coffee in the background, as a blur of traffic passing on the road, as a lighted window at dusk — insignificant and unassuming, but clearly there.

And who is to say I’d even like to know this random passerby’s story? Would I even want a bigger role in this person’s epic story? Well, no. My truth is that I’m not taken by people that easily.

Ahh, but then I met you. And I was taken by you. And never did I feel so fervent about not only desiring to hear your story, but also being a part of it — not just as the person who accidentally bumps into you in the street and then goes on her merry way, but as the person who bumps into you in the street, drops all of her belongings, we both bend down to pick them up, we bump each other’s heads, have a laugh about it, decide to get coffee, etc., etc.

Not that our romance started in this idyllic manner or anything, but that’s how badly I wanted to get to know you and wanted to be a part of you. I guess what I’m trying to say here is… thank you. Thank you you for taking me on as a lead role in your life. I was born to play this role, really.

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