The Stranger Who Taught Me a Lesson
A Chance Encounter in the Cobwebs of a Small-Town Library
It was a gloomy Tuesday afternoon—one of those days when the sky seems to press its gray forearms down upon your shoulders, daring you to stay indoors. I had succumbed, finding refuge in the smell of dust and decaying paper at the Kennebunkport Public Library. For someone who grew up surrounded by the creak of ancient floorboards and the salt-heavy air of New England, this place was a childhood haunt and a lasting harbor when life felt turbulent. I’d come to exchange pleasantries with a few forgotten classics and avoid tackling a relationship puzzle I’d been dodging for weeks.
He stood there in the corner under the pallid light of a brass reading lamp, scribbling something into the margins of a book he didn’t seem the least bit guilty about vandalizing. A stranger—but not the stoic, denim-clad romantic type from an Edith Wharton novel. No, this was an actual stranger, in the truest sense. He was wearing the unmistakable orange clogs of someone entirely at peace with his life decisions, and I couldn’t decide if I hated him or wanted to borrow that level of audacity.
"Ever find yourself stuck between pages?" he asked, without so much as looking up, as though I’d wandered there with my inner turmoil scribbled onto my forehead.
"I'm sorry?" I blinked, unsure if he was talking to me or the entire room.
"Books. Relationships. Doesn’t matter," he continued as if we’d already been having this conversation for years. "The story’s dragged on too long, or the ending feels too far away. Drives you mad, doesn’t it?”
I adjusted the scarf around my neck—because sometimes, when you're stunned into listening, you buy yourself time with needless fidgeting. But something about his words clipped past my defenses. I wasn’t just stuck "between pages"; I was practically wallpapered inside a spiraling chapter of emotional stagnation.
Every Book (and Relationship) Has An Expiration Date
"Look," he said, finally locking eyes with me, his expression a study in nonchalance. "It’s like a novel you want to love but can’t. You reread the same lines hoping they’ll suddenly make sense, but they don’t. You’ve grown, but the book hasn’t. You can’t expect it to live up to new expectations you’ve built in a completely different context. So what do you do?"
Before I could muster a response, he closed the book in his hands with a definitive thud that echoed through the quiet library. "You let it go. You put it back on the shelf, and you move on."
It felt both jarring and oddly comforting, like a slap from someone who genuinely cares. At the time, I was teetering on the edge of walking away from a relationship that had grown comfortable but increasingly hollow—a fragile schooner bobbing aimlessly in the fog, devoid of destination or wind. His analogy about the book struck me hard, not because it was groundbreaking, but because no one had ever delivered it with such blunt confidence while also sporting orange clogs.
The Danger of Nostalgia’s Siren Song
I began stammering something about sentimental ties—or maybe it was just guilt. After all, who wants the burden of quitting a book halfway through? But here he was, shrugging at my impromptu soul-baring session.
"Ah, nostalgia’s a tricky beast," he mused, tucking his hands into his pockets. "It’s like returning to an old lighthouse. You don’t go because the view is better than it was—it’s because you remember how it once made you feel. The fog and rocks are the same. The lighthouse hasn’t changed; you have. That’s the thing about lighthouses, though. They’re meant to guide lost ships—not keep you tethered to shore."
Dear reader, if I weren’t actively resisting the romance novel unfolding in front of me, you would’ve heard a figurative ocean wave crash in the background. But this wasn’t one of those swoony moments where sparks flew. No, the greater spark was the mental combustion happening inside my head.
Suddenly, I found myself reflecting on every moment I’d ignored red flags for the sake of clinging to "what used to be." Excuses I’d made because familiarity felt safer than loneliness. Nostalgia can, in fact, be a lousy travel guide when you’re navigating the roads of love.
A Self-Proclaimed Life Librarian
After finishing his impromptu pep talk, he turned his attention back to the now defiled book in his hands. I craned my neck to see the title: How to Live or A Life Worth Living. Ironically, it was about letting go of outdated stories to make room for new ones.
"You can call me a librarian for life," he joked with an easy grin. "Not here to shush people, just trying to sort the shelves of people's thinking. Rule number one: the book isn’t the villain. Read it. Learn from it. But don’t chain yourself to it. Life’s got too many books for that."
Cheeky, preachy, and yet somehow magnetic, he grabbed a pen from his pocket and scribbled something onto the title page of the book. Then, with a resolute nod, he shoved it back onto the shelf and wandered off—orange clogs squeaking in defiant harmony with every step. He didn’t wait for thanks or fanfare. Just disappeared.
The Real Lesson He Left Behind
When I moved toward the shelf where he’d stashed the book, I noticed he’d left a note on the title page, a neat little scrawl: "You’re not a bookmark. Stop holding places in things that aren’t holding you back."
I instantly laughed, partly at the absurdity of the situation but also at the bitter truth he'd so succinctly wrapped up in that single sentence.
I never saw him again, but that stranger did something invaluable for me that day. He gave me permission to step out of "safe" stagnation and embrace forward momentum. It wasn’t dramatic. It wasn’t earth-shattering. But it planted a seed.
A week later, I ended that floating, aimless relationship. Not bitterly. There were no grand exits or slamming doors—just a quiet understanding that the story we were writing had reached its natural conclusion. And for once, I wasn’t afraid to set the book down and walk away.
Closing the Chapter, Starting a New One
What I learned that day is this: life is too short to squeeze yourself into narratives that no longer make sense. Whether it’s a relationship, a job, or even a dream you’ve outgrown—it’s okay to let go. It doesn’t mean you’re giving up. It means you understand that not all endings are tragedies; sometimes, they’re just graceful exits so better chapters can begin.
And dear reader, always remember what my orange-clogged literary guru taught me. You’re not a bookmark. You’re the story. Make it worth reading.
