I was running late for a family dinner, cursing Houston traffic under my breath, when I decided to grab a quick coffee at a spot near downtown. The line was long enough to give me a moment to rethink every decision I’d ever made—did I really need caffeine before facing my Aunt Cece’s barrage of questions about my dating life? But as I stood there, shifting my weight from one foot to the other, I noticed him.

He wore a weathered leather jacket and scuffed boots, the kind of vibe that screamed “I just casually stepped out of a 90s indie movie.” He looked about sixty and had a face full of laugh lines, the kind you don’t earn without living a little. We locked eyes for a split second, and suddenly he nodded, as if we were old friends meeting again. I smiled back. It felt automatic, reflexive, like being handed an unexpected piece of joy.

When I finally ordered my coffee, he was still there, sitting by the window, staring at the little spiral in his espresso cup like it held the meaning of life. As I passed by his table, he looked up and said, “You ever notice how people always think they need more time, but what they really need is less fear?”

Was he a fortune cookie? A retired poet? I didn’t know, but something about his words stopped me in my tracks. Before I could overthink it, I sat down.

Stranger Wisdom Over Coffee

In the conversation that followed, this man—who, for simplicity’s sake, I’ll call Gus because he never offered his name—turned my perception of timing, vulnerability, and relationships upside down. You ever have someone just casually read you like a book you thought you’d misplaced in your 20s? That was Gus. Except he wasn’t digging for drama or offering advice like a self-proclaimed expert; he had a way of threading his wisdom into the air, letting me decide if I wanted to catch it.

The topic of relationships came up because—naturally—it was top of my mind. My last breakup was still a fresh scratch on my heart. You know the kind: too dramatic to feel like a clean ending but not quite tragic enough to justify applying for a spot on a reality dating show. Gus caught on quickly, nodding knowingly when I mentioned “closure.”

“You don’t need closure, kid,” he said, leaning forward. “You need practice. You’re looking at pain like it’s a wall, but it’s a door. Walk through it, even if it creaks.”

This hit me like one of those slow moments in a Luther Vandross song, right before he slides into the chorus that reminds you how fragile love can be. Gus was right: I’d spent so much time trying to “close” the chapter with an ex that I wasn’t allowing myself the freedom to begin a new one. My heart was trying to micromanage healing, demanding an ending with a bow, instead of letting life be the unwrapped, messy gift it is.

Stop Romanticizing the Script

Gus went on. “The problem with people is they’re always writing a script in their heads. You think you're the director of someone else’s part in your story, but they're busy starring in their own movie. Give them room to improvise.”

This resonated somewhere between my sociology degree and the countless hours I’d spent overanalyzing texts from past relationships. Like that one time I’d convinced myself an ex’s one-word reply to my “How have you been?” meant they secretly wanted to reconcile. Ah, the mind of an overthinker is a dangerous neighborhood.

Gus’s point was simple: stop shaping every encounter around expectations. Relationships—romantic or otherwise—don’t always need to fit neatly into the narratives we create. By trying to predict outcomes, we rob ourselves of witnessing people as they truly are.

Lessons in Fearlessness

At one point, I asked Gus if he was married. He chuckled, a little sheepishly. “No... lost her a while back. But we had thirty good years, and if you spend too much time mourning the end, you forget to honor the middle.”

That wisdom hit me differently, the way Beyoncé’s lyrics can shift from empowering to devastating depending on your vibe. It reminded me that while fear of the unknown often keeps us tethered, so does fear of loss. Listening to Gus reflect on his late wife made me realize that love’s value isn’t in how long it lasts but how deeply it’s felt. Every moment counts. Even the fleeting ones.

How to Open the Door

When I left the café that day, I didn’t feel like I’d had a “movie moment” or some grand epiphany. What Gus gave me wasn’t a solution—it was a subtle shift in perspective. Sometimes you don’t need a stranger to change your life; you just need someone to remind you of the things you already know but forget to practice.

Here’s what I took away from my short time with Gus that day:

  1. Let Go of the Script: Stop trying to write dialogue in a screenplay only you’ve imagined. Relationships are conversations, not monologues.

  2. Move Through Pain, Not Around It: The only way out of heartbreak is through it. Avoiding feelings doesn’t make them disappear; it just gives them squatters’ rights in your soul.

  3. Appreciate the Middle: Stop measuring the importance of relationships based on how they end. Whether they last thirty days or thirty years, their significance lies in the moments that define them—not the ones that conclude them.

  4. Be Present with People: Put down your expectations and truly meet someone where they are. Not where you imagine they’ll be.

Parting Words (Literally)

As I stood to leave, coffee warming my palms, Gus grinned and said, “Remember, kid, strangers aren’t strange; they’re just friends you’ve only spoken to once.”

And with that, I stepped back into the Houston sun, marveling at how a brief moment with a stranger could feel like sitting front-row at a truth seminar. Sometimes, life has a way of throwing wisdom at you when you’re least expecting it. You just have to be ready to catch it when it comes.

Wherever you are, Gus—thank you.