I met a boy a year ago, who worked in a coffee shop. He wasn’t dreamy by any standards, but he wasn’t repulsive either. He was rather plain, with short dusty hair, a kind smile, and a build that suggested he paid a visit to the gym occasionally. His appearance lacked anything that would give reason to remember him.

The first time that he took my order, he seemed to be excited about something. As he made my drink, we chatted about the movies that we liked. I admit that I listened less to what he said and more to how he said it. His passion for the films that he mentioned was obvious, and I replied just enough to keep him talking. His voice I had noticed, was mesmerizing. The more he said, the more relaxed I felt in his presence.

I left that coffee shop calmer than I had felt in quite a while. In the weeks that followed, I found myself thinking about asking him all sorts of things. Things such as what was his name, what kind of music did he listen to, what did he do for fun, and would he maybe want to go see a movie sometime? That last one was always the most terrifying, and I told myself that one day I would ask him.

I saw him again a few times over the next months, and every time I was unable to summon the courage to ask him any of those things. Instead, he would take my order and we made polite conversation. We’d discuss the weather, how his day was going, or what he did with his friends last week. At the end of it all, I’d walk away with coffee in hand, his voice echoing in my ears, and a promise to myself that next time would be the right opportunity to really talk to him.