You will never be friends with strangers, and some people will always be strangers.

[northern_magic]

 In high school, you rarely took the first bus home. It was crowded, loud with chattering strangers, and reeked of wet socks. Instead, you usually waited for your friends to finish practice. Every Tuesday and Thursday, you went across the street to grab some food and stare at your homework.

 

The cafe was tiny and often full, but that day you're feeling particularly bold. The large table at the back was only half occupied by three younger boys, who didn't look like they are expecting anyone, so you politely asked to sit at the other end. Their effusive response surprised you; they genially apologized and cleared room for you, before returning to their conversation.

 

The boys were animated and articulate, and you worked very hard pretending to study as you eavesdrop. They were starting a band. You gathered that they were meeting for perhaps the first time, but they finished each other's sentences excitedly and joked like old friends. The boy recruited as a percussionist could only play the shaker, but he'd been playing around with some beats in GarageBand. Their keyboardist came in second in the local piano competition last year. Their singer already had a few song ideas.

 

You admired them. You were struggling enough with school, and can't imagine having the time and energy to do anything extracurricular. Your admiration gnawed on you, like envy.

 

They were there every Tuesday and Thursday for the rest of semester, and the cafe was always full except for their table, so you sat near them. After a couple weeks they seemed to expect you, sparing a second or two from their conversation to shoot you a smile in greeting. You smiled back, but you never talked to them, and they never spoke to you.

 

During winter exams, you were convinced you had a crush on one of them, because your friends pointed out that you must have. You weren't sure which one. You had a crisis for about a week. The one thing you were sure about was that you failed the chem final because you were so tired, so that had been a long week. The bubbly scandal of a romantic crisis, egged on by your friends, was a welcome reprieve.

 

You eventually concluded that you didn't have a crush on any of them. You didn't see them in the spring, anyway. Besides, what if that one guy *had* been gay?

 

You wonder about lives not lived. You wonder briefly, then forget.

 

It was a few days before spring exams, and everyone was antsy with the sweet scent of summer so near. Your class just got out of English, the teacher's tirade still ringing in your ears, and class change was almost over. You walked quickly, but not too quickly, because your next class was math. 

 

Down the hall, someone slammed their locker shut. You saw that it was one of the boys, the skinny one. He recognized you, and waved. You waved back. 

 

"Hey, haven't seen you in a while!" he said, and you stopped near him in confusion.

 

"Hey, yeah, been a while," you mumbled, or something to that effect. He was rummaging in one of his binders.

 

"Listen," he continued effusively, "I know we're not tight but I feel like you've sort of been part of our journey, you know? So I was wondering if you wanted to come to our gig on Sunday?"

 

For a brief moment, you saw this encounter branching, branching into infinity. You were frozen at the edge of time, paralyzed by the vastness of the future. 

 

"Sorry, I can't," you made yourself say. "I have an exam on Monday."

 

He grimaced in sympathy. "That's too bad. Here, have a flyer anyway." You took it from him. 

 

You don't remember if you read the flyer. You don't remember that exam or the weekend before it. You're not sure why you remember that last encounter.

 

Live life without regret, they say.

 

 

Ten years later, you are on a crowded train going home from work. There are more younger people, people your age, than usual on this train. They are on their way to a concert, and their enthusiasm catches at you, lightening a little of your exhaustion.

 

The chatter of a tambourine cuts through the noise, startling you fully awake, and everyone around you cheers. The tambourine sets up a lively rhythm, while guitars strum and people clap along. A voice lifts up in song, lyrics lost over the percussion, but beautiful when the melody cuts through.

 

It's hard to see through the press of people, but you think you can make out the general area of the performers. You imagine those boys from high school. You imagine briefly what it might have been like to know them now. You don't recall their names.

 

People keep singing the chorus after the last chord, and the performers are coaxed into a raucous encore. They are quite good at playing the crowd. You clap and laugh along with everyone else.

 

They hand out flyers, and you eventually obtain one and get a glimpse of them. At a glance, they look familiar, but you're not sure. The train pulls into the next station, and the car empties. You realize you had missed your stop by a good twenty minutes. When you finally get home, you realize you lost the flyer.

 

They are on the train again, the next day, this time as passengers. They might have always taken the same train as you. They do not look familiar, but they laugh and joke like old friends, like people you used to know.

 

Today work went relatively well, so you're feeling bold. You approach them, and tell them you liked their performance the night before. They are happily surprised, and thank you effusively. 

 

They have a gig next Sunday, at a pub just down the road from where you live, and they give you a flyer. You tell them you will go. You mean this sincerely.

 

You make small talk with them. Your taste in music only overlaps peripherally, with one of them: your co-worker occasionally listens to metal so you have a couple songs you like, and their singer was in a metal band in high school. You have nothing else in common. 

 

It's all right though; they have plenty of anecdotes to share, and you share a few of your own. You even learn a couple guitar chords. You feel happy and accomplished when you get home.

 

Life happens, and you do not go. You can't take that train anymore; you take a much later train to a different part of the city. There are many other things to regret, and you almost forget.

 

You have names and a flyer. You wonder how much you care. You wonder.