I was drinking coffee in a cafe. A man passes by and silently places a folded paper on my table. The document states, “I probably should be minding my own business, so if you don’t like this intrusion into your life, don’t read the note and just throw it away.” Of course, I opened it and found more.
My name is Malik. For some reason, I saw you sitting here and knew you were at a crossroads. Possibly incorrect or irrational, but if correct… I hope this helps.”
The end. No phone number, Instagram handle, or cheesy inspirational quote. Just words. He was already out the door when I looked up. Tall, hoodie, jeans—nothing special. He never looked back.
Crossroads came to mind as I sat with my coffee growing cold. Was I there?
It turns out I was. However, that note allowed me to admit it.
I was 28. I was single, working a bad job, and living in a terrible city. You know that moment where you’re not in crisis but nothing feels like home? I was stuck there.
After my coffee, I left the café and went home the long way. The note kept playing in my thoughts. It was vague enough to be general yet specific enough to irritate me.
I glanced at the ceiling in my tiny apartment that night, wondering why a stranger could see what I couldn’t tell my friends. I hadn’t mentioned my recent emptiness. I became tired of pretending everything was OK.
A week passed. I kept the note in my wallet for luck. I read it whenever I wanted to zone out in meetings or scroll aimlessly. Not in a terrible manner, but like an itch I needed to scratch.
So I listed. Just wrote down what I wanted to modify. Things like “move out of this apartment,” “talk to Mom more,” and “figure out what I actually want to do with my life.”
One thing persisted: photography.
Not new. Use to adore taking photographs. I considered doing it professionally in high school. Between student loans and “being realistic,” I buried it.
No longer had a real camera. Just my phone. When I visited my parents that weekend, I found my old DSLR in their attic. The battery worked. On the walk back into the city, I took several photos—nothing special, but it felt wonderful.
A few weeks later, I started taking street shots before work. I would go across the city, taking photos of vendors setting up business, kids chasing pigeons, and women giggling into their phones.
I shared them anonymously on a new Instagram. No name, no face. Just @citysnapsalone. The username fit.
People noticed, surprising me. Few thousand, yet significant. “This feels like home” or “You made me look at the city differently.” I was proud of something other than my work title for the first time in years.
Two months after the note incident, I returned to that café one evening. Not sure why. Perhaps I anticipated seeing Malik again.
I didn’t.
My table was joined by an older woman with a green coat. Asking if the other seat was taken. Shaking my head. Smiled, she saw my camera on the table.
“You a photographer?” she inquired.
I said, “Trying to be,” half-laughing.
Her name was Sara. Photojournalist before retirement. We chatted for about an hour. She told me about covering protests, weddings, and the World Cup. She advised me to pay attention to my eyes lighting up as I talked about images.
Emails were exchanged. A week later, she sent me a community picture exhibit link. “You should enter,” she wrote.
I did. Nervously. A train station snapshot of a youngster holding his dad’s hand was my choice. I named it Trust.
It entered.
People approached me at the exhibit to ask about the photo and its tale. I told them about the boy and waiting for the right time. Not telling them about the note. Not yet.
After that, things changed. They did slowly.
I received little offers. Local businesses requested marketing shots. A friend’s friend asked me to photograph their engagement. My nights and weekends were for photography, but I worked during the day.
A post on my photo account said, “Your page reminds me what it feels like to walk through this city with open eyes. Thank you.” No name. Just that.
I contemplated that note. About Malik. Who was he? Why did he write?
I searched for him. The café barista was asked if they know that guy. She shrugged. “All kinds.”
Six months. My lease was almost up, so I decided not to renew. I desired change. Something real.
A smaller apartment near the city center was discovered. Nothing spectacular, but morning window light was excellent for photographs.
I received an email one random Tuesday. The subject was “Re: That Note.”
It read:
“Hey. My name is Malik, which may be odd. Your Instagram photo caught my eye. I remembered you from the café. I did not plan to invade, but I’m glad I did. You seem OK. If you want to discuss, I’d love to get coffee.”
My heart raced. How did he discover me? I remembered posting a photo of myself at the gallery a few weeks before. Just one.
I answered. We had coffee on Saturday. Same cafe.
Malik was quiet as usual. He said he wrote, sort of. He led painting and writing workshops for kids in community development.
He added, “I’ve written a lot of notes in my life. Most throw them away. You didn’t.”
I questioned why he provided it. Shrugging. You seemed… halted. It felt like you were somewhere else. And I know how that feels.”
We talked for hours. People, stories, art, and how we want to be seen.
Afterward, we became friends. Not best friends or daily-texting pals, but stable friends who can withstand months apart.
One hidden note. Two chilling lines: ‘They don’t know. Our secret.’ Suddenly, my partner’s life is a terrifying lie, and I’m watching, desperate for the truth—no matter the cost.
