Her
The unexpected encounter leaves me slightly off-balance. Three guys crossing the street specifically to talk to me wasn't on my New Year's Day bingo card. I watch them walk away, the one who introduced himself as Marcus looking back once more before they turn the corner.
"Who was that?" Juliet demands when I return to our call.
"Just some neighbors," I say, though the description feels inadequate. "One of them asked me out."
"Details, now," she insists.
I describe Marcus—the dreadlocks, the tattoos peeking from beneath his sleeve, the easy confidence of someone who moves through the world knowing it will accommodate him.
"He showed me his social media profile," I tell her. "Verified, with hundreds of thousands of followers."
"Are you serious?" Juliet squeals. "You have to go out with him!"
"We're planning for Friday," I say, trying to sound casual though my pulse quickens at the thought. "It's probably nothing."
"It's not nothing! Do you know how many girls would kill for that? A date with an actual influencer?"
I laugh softly. "I don't think he's an influencer, exactly. But he definitely has some kind of online presence."
When we hang up, I go inside and lean against the closed door, replaying the interaction. Marcus was undeniably attractive—not just physically, but in the way he carried himself, the way his eyes crinkled when he smiled. But men like him don't seriously pursue women like me.
Still, I find myself checking my phone throughout the evening, hoping for his message. By bedtime, the screen remains stubbornly free of notifications from his number. I set the phone aside, chiding myself for expecting anything. People like Marcus exist in a different reality—one where promises are casual and easily forgotten.
The next morning brings news that eclipses thoughts of Marcus entirely: Dad is coming home. After thirty-four days in the hospital, the doctors are finally releasing him. My brother gets the call at dawn, and by eight, we're all in motion, transforming the house to welcome him back.
"His room needs fresh linens," Mom directs, moving with more energy than I've seen in weeks. "And we need to rearrange the furniture so his wheelchair can fit."
I throw myself into preparing his homecoming meal, carefully consulting the dietary restrictions provided by the hospital. No salt, reduced fat, nothing processed. I develop a menu that honors these constraints while still celebrating his return: herb-roasted chicken, steamed vegetables with a light lemon sauce, brown rice pilaf, and for dessert, a fresh fruit compote sweetened with just a touch of honey.
As we work, my phone remains silent. No message from Marcus, no confirmation of our date. By Thursday, I've accepted that it was just a casual interaction that meant nothing to him. By Friday morning, I've pushed the entire encounter to the back of my mind, focusing instead on Dad's recovery and what it means for our family going forward.
Life continues. Some chapters open; others close. The hopeful beginning of a new year transforms into the steady rhythm of familiar responsibilities. And I'm okay with that—I've never been one to build castles in the air.
Still, sometimes when I catch the scent of a passing stranger's cologne or hear laughter carrying across the street, I remember those few minutes on New Year's Day and wonder what might have been.