I don’t remember the number of strangers who have piqued my interest in this life of mine. But for a long time, I was thinking of writing about all the strangers I have met, or I have observed from a distance, thinking about the stories they might be holding inside them. Now, as you can see, I am starting to write with my first account, so I am naming this one stranger as number one on my stranger list.
To The Stranger Number One,
You, nodding your head when I asked, Is this seat vacant.
You, sitting across me with your cup of tea in that white mud-coloured mug.
You, gaping at my maroon coloured Hogwarts sweatshirt.
You, holding your little blue notebook with its crisp blank pages.
You, looking at my old stained book with a slight disinterest.
You, with your green pouch, encasing a bunch of different coloured pens.
You, eyeing my beautiful grey coloured black pictured bookmark.
You, frantically scribbling words in the language that I can’t read, kindling my interest.
You, watching me with the corner of your eyes.
You, wiping your eyes with a bunch of tissues, not sure was it because of sentiments or science.
You, checking my white cup of cappuccino.
You, mindlessly eating from your plate of mashed potatoes and toast, unbeknownst your dish tempted me.
You, scanning my photography skills for my Instagram book post.
You, talking in an unknown language in a video call with a family member or a friend.
You, glancing at my multitasking skills of sipping coffee and reading.
You, lost in your world of words, sometime looking around to catch the right ones from our breaths.
You, staring at the cover of my book and wondering what story it holds.
You might be writing about something where we both existed at the same time.
Or You might be comprehending a parallel world where nothing of this world exists.
Somehow You, perhaps like me, might feel like writing about the stranger across your table.
So, if You do, use your visions freely to paint me on your canvas of white but pick the ink red.
The stranger across you