I have time; I’m only nineteen. Time to wander. Time to explore. Time to figure out what's meant for me and what isn’t.
My parents, who have always been supportive of my decisions, would like me to go to culinary school. You know, following in the family footsteps. I do love cooking, and I’ve always helped out in their restaurants, but it isn’t for me. Hell, I don’t know what’s for me at this point.
Shocking everyone, even myself, I recently took a position in the blue-collar life, working in the oilfield.
That’s the thing about not knowing exactly what you want out of life—you keep changing the things around you in hopes that you find what's meant for you, not knowing if it is or not until it’s too late.
Life.
It’s funny like that.
Turning the corner to one of my parents' new restaurants to tell them goodbye before I leave for my work rotation, I hear what sounds like sobbing. Looking around for the source, it’s then that I seeher.
She appears to be stunning, but I can’t really tell since her head is in her hands. Something about the sight of her crying breaks my heart. Her blonde hair, splayed over her shoulder, covers the rest of her face, left uncovered by her hands.
I cringe—not at her, butforher. I’m no germophobe, but the sidewalks in New Orleans aren’t exactly sanitary. I’m immediately concerned. Someone has to really be going through it to willingly sit on this ground.
I watch her for a few brief moments, shuffling on my feet, not knowing what to do. Do I talk to her? Ask if she’s okay? Bring her water? Hell, I don’t know. Maybe I should just walk on and leave her be.
But it’s then that she lets out another loud cry, and my heart breaks further. Before I know it, my feet are moving, closing our distance.
“Hey,” I say, hesitating, not sure what to even say. “Are you okay?”
“Doing just dandy,” she says in a clipped tone as she sniffles through her hands, not giving me the time of day to even look up.
I can’t help but think,Rude. But then I remember she’s literally crying on the dirty sidewalk and probably wants to blend in, not stand out further.
I should do just that. I should walk away. I don’t.
Despite what most people think, I know what it’s like to feel at your lowest. I’ve been there. However, I’ve always managed to hide it well. Granted, I was just like her and made the choice to go through it alone. For some reason, I feel called to not let her feel the same.
“Oh, great,” I say, taking a seat next to her, making every effort to assure we don’t touch. “Me too.”
She stiffens next to me, but she doesn’t make any attempts to move.
“What are you doing?” she asks, still crying into her hands.
I let out a sigh.Yeah, Maverick. What the hell are you doing?
“I’m sitting with a stranger through a dark time,” I say, taking her in. “Sometimes we just need someone to sit with us through the darkness. Not say anything. Just a reminder that we aren’t alone. So, I’m sitting here. Reminding you… You aren’t alone.”
I cringe for a second time.Really Maverick? Did you seriously just say that shit?
She doesn’t respond, just cries harder, remaining unmoving next to me.
The entire sight pulls at the strings of my heart. I want to ask for her story. I want to know what has her in shambles. More than that, I find myself wanting to simply knowher.
Which is weird. Even for me. I’m a people person, there’s no doubt about that. But why am I so drawn to know everything there is to know about someone I haven’t evenmet?I’m just a stranger, passing in a world spinning too fast.
That’s the thing about living such a fast-paced life: we forget to slow down and get to know the strangers around us. We all have shit we go through, and stories worth telling and being heard.
I don’t know exactly why or what's different about her, but I’m drawn to know everything she has to tell.
“If you want to talk abou—”
“Thank you,” she says softly.
Her voice.
