It’s incredible how much you can say without saying anything at all.

I didn't think much of you when you wanted the squat rack between my sets. But when you noticed I needed padding (the bar was digging into my shoulders) and stopped mid-treadmill-run to grab me a towel, something shifted.

I opened my eyes and you were there, not even winded, one arm extended with a yellow towel right beside my ear. Eyebrows lifted. Head tilted. Go on, take it.

My instinct was to politely decline. You insisted. I shook my head. Then you—in the most animated gesture I've ever seen from a stranger—pistol squatted and left it beside me before vanishing.

Such a strange encounter. Mostly because of the pistol squat.

But I love vibrantly strange encounters.

—

P.S. - The towel was a game-changer.

I found myself loitering by the exit after my workout just to thank you. On a regular day, I would have left. But I felt pulled by some sense of obligation—or maybe something else—to return the gesture.

I'd heard you speaking Korean. Maybe I could mention I'd just flown in from Seoul. (Or is that weird?)

I saw you cheering for a team on the TV. Maybe I could bring up the time I saw Manchester City play.

I spent ten minutes rehearsing lines.

At 10:30, you Naruto-ran out of the gym—comically, impossibly—carrying your girlfriend piggyback as she giggled.

You both looked so happy. Even I laughed.

I waved and half-shouted, "Thank you!" You paused, smiled, gave me a salute—and before I could say anything else, resumed running down the hallway. Her laughter echoed behind you.

My rehearsed lines caught on the tip of my tongue. I stepped forward, wanting to say them anyway, but the moment was already gone. So I stepped back.

I haven't stopped thinking about that exchange. If I'd said more, would we be friends? Could we have grabbed tea the next day? Maybe I'd have shared my favorite spots for your next date night.

I'm getting ahead of myself.

I don't even know what your voice sounds like.