An Open Letter to the Stranger Who Smiled at Me

The sole purpose of this letter is to tell you precisely why you should never smile at strangers again.

I was on my way home this afternoon, and the scorching weather was pissing me off, because after two minutes of walking by, I was already soaking wet despite my umbrella. I was going to take a jeep that brings me directly to the subdivision when the driver told me that the jeep was already full. That, of course, made me more upset.

I went back to the sidewalk, and I wanted to scowl at the jeep that just rejected me so I’d feel a bit better, but then I saw you. You were seated on the nearest side of the entrance of the jeep, and you were looking right at me. I barely remember your face now, but you were wearing white, which I assumed was your uniform.

And then you smiled at me. It wasn’t just a normal smile, either, you smiled at me with sympathy, as if you were trying to apologize to me because I was stuck under the scorching heat of the sun, standing on the sidewalk with no apparent way of getting home.

In a moment of panic, I tried to smile back, but I probably looked like I was in pain. Sorry about that — smiling isn’t exactly my area of expertise. But as I looked away, determined not to let my eyes trail back at you ever, I realized you actually had made this stupid hot afternoon a tad better.

So I guess I have you to thank for that.

But I remember something in my Philosophy class two years back then, which, if you must know, rarely happens. My professor was talking about how we, as human beings, have an irresistible tendency to search for a mutual recognition of our consciousness. Simply put, we all just want to be seen by the people we see.

And then it hit me — that was exactly what happened to us. That was why my afternoon was immediately better the moment you smiled at me. You, who didn’t even have a single idea who I am, saw me.

And it wasn’t even anything magical, you know? This isn’t the stuff people write songs or poems about. But for a moment there, you and I saw each other, and you smiled at me, and I tried to smile back, and your consciousness recognized my consciousness.

Then the traffic light turned green, and your jeep left my street, and I was still standing on the sidewalk. I was left there thinking about how you, in your dimwit white uniform, had no idea that the fact that I probably won’t ever see you again — that our consciousnesses won’t recognize each other again ever — devastates me.

And that is why you shouldn’t have smiled at me, stranger. I wish you didn’t smile that doofus apologetic smile of yours. I wish you never saw me, because that just makes me want to see you again, and the chances of that happening is probably as small as the number of jeeps that passed by my street right after yours left.

Clue: There weren’t any.