I noticed her because of the bag.
We were both wearing the same one, a small, blue backpack. The kind that’s practical but still a little cute, and when I caught her eye and pointed at it, she smiled immediately.
“Hey,” I said, “we’ve got the same bag.”
She laughed. “I know. I noticed it too.”
That was all it took.
She appeared to be in her late twenties, calm on the surface, soft-spoken, and very open. There was no awkwardness, no sense that I had to carry the conversation. She seemed genuinely ready to talk. Almost relieved to.
She asked me what I do and why I was there, and I told her that every couple of weeks I take a day off just for myself. A personal day to wander, have fun, think, reflect, and do nothing in particular. She paused for a moment and then said she thought that was very cool, like it was something she hadn’t considered was allowed.
We talked about studies and career aspirations, about the usual uncertainties that come with trying to build a life that feels meaningful. Somewhere along the way, we realised we both like Star Trek, and that small shared interest opened another door. We spoke about it for a bit, the ideas, the curiosity, the way it makes you think about humanity and the future and how we hoped the new Star Trek: Starfleet Academy does not become another disappointing show in the Star Trek TV franchise. She even loved Picard more than I did!
The conversation then naturally shifted into something deeper. She told me she struggles with palpitations, and with anxiety that comes and goes, often without warning. Then she said something quietly, almost matter-of-factly, that stayed with me. She said she often struggles with the meaning of life itself. That she doesn’t really get the point of anything, and that sometimes the only reason she keeps going is because she knows it makes her parents happy.
She has friends. She goes out. She tries to have fun. But she said she doesn’t really feel it the way others seem to. Most days, she’d rather be tucked away in bed, alone with her thoughts. And she thinks a lot, about existence, about purpose, about why we’re here at all.
I told her I understood more than she probably expected. I shared that I’ve gone through my own existential crisis before, a period where those same questions felt heavy and unavoidable, where nothing quite made sense and everything felt strangely hollow. I told her about something Richard Feynman once said, that we may never fully understand why we’re here, or the deeper meaning behind atoms, evolution, and the universe itself, but that once we are here, we owe it to ourselves to give it our best.
She listened carefully, nodding, as I shared my Christian faith, not interrupting. Just taking it in.
When it was time to go, we exchanged contact details and promised to keep in touch. There was no dramatic goodbye, just a quiet sense that the conversation mattered and that it had landed somewhere honest.