The diary of almost everything

Sometimes I notice someone before I realise I’m doing it.
A room full of people, voices overlapping, movement everywhere  and somehow my attention settles on just one person.
I don’t know anything about them.
And somehow, that’s exactly the point.

They might be sitting alone in a café, staring out the window while their coffee slowly cools. Or standing on a platform, holding their phone without really looking at it.
Or keeping their coat on at the bar, as if they’re still deciding whether they’re staying.

I rarely ever speak to them
I just build a very detailed backstory in my head and then continue with my day.
It’s not curiosity in the loud sense of the word (or maybe it is?)
It feels more like quiet attention.

Sometimes my imagination goes so far that I briefly consider asking,
“So… what’s your story? Where did you grow up? Are you secretly a rich Swiss banker who changed careers?”
I don’t, obviously.
That would be strange (would it…?)
Obviously I don’t want people to think I’m slightly unhinged…..
Most of these stories are wildly inaccurate.
I know that. They would collapse instantly if tested against reality.
Still, every now and then, when I see someone more often or overhear fragments of conversation, I realise I wasn’t completely wrong. Not precise, not factual, but close enough to remind me that people almost always carry more than what’s visible.

What I love is the story itself, but even more the moment of noticing.
A brief pause where nothing is required.
No introductions. No effort to turn it into something more.
Just the quiet awareness that another life is unfolding right next to mine.
There’s a soft ache in that, too.
Because once the moment passes, it’s gone again.
They leave the café.
The train arrives.
The suitcase wheels roll by and everyone returns to their own lives.
I’ve always found that part difficult, the leaving.
Not because I can’t handle change, but because when something feels good, I want to hold it just a little longer.
The place, the atmosphere.
The version of myself that existed right there.

And yes, I laugh at myself sometimes.
Because my mind can turn ten quiet minutes into a full fictional biography.
But I don’t mind.
These moments genuinely enrich my day.
A shared smile with a stranger.
A quiet conversation overheard on a train.
A fleeting sense that, for a second, two lives brushed past each other in a way that mattered.

I’m very comfortable on my own.
But when I feel at ease with someone, familiar or not, something opens.
A small warmth, a sense of meaning that doesn’t ask to be explained.

I think I simply have a deep interest in people. Not loudly, not invasively, but attentively.
So I’ll keep noticing, with a latte in my hand.
Letting small, unfinished stories exist only for as long as they need to.
Because sometimes, simply seeing someone
is already enough.

-Sophie Quinn