Fleeting Moments of Human Connection

“My only social mode was earnest heart-to-heart. Strangers would abandon me for lighter dynamics." - August Lamm

I read that this morning and that line stuck with me.

Because I’ve always known this about myself, but I don’t think I’ve ever said it out loud.

I can only operate one-on-one.

I’ve tried to fit in. Tried to blend into groups, to find a rhythm in conversations that bounce and overlap, where words are thrown around like tennis balls, where people shift and move in and out of focus. But it’s never felt natural to me.

I get quiet. Not because I have nothing to say, but because I don’t know where to fit. I don’t know how to be in a way that feels right.

But when it’s just one person, everything makes sense.

Last summer, I was sitting outside a coffee shop when I met a girl from Ireland. A tourist, just passing through. She had Catching the Big Fish by David Lynch on her lap, and I mentioned it. That was all it took. Suddenly, we were in conversation about Terence McKenna, creativity, consciousness, Carl Jung, the strange pull of ideas that seem to arrive from nowhere. We talked for an hour, maybe more. Then I left. I never saw her again. She went back to Ireland the next day. And that was okay.

Because I still remember.

I think back on every connection I’ve ever had that meant something. A friend. A partner. A conversation that stayed with me years after it happened. They all happened the same way. Just two people, no distractions, no performance. Just being.

That’s the only way I know how to connect.

And for a long time, I thought that was a problem.

I thought maybe I was missing something. That if I could just figure out how to navigate social groups better, if I could just adjust the way I interacted, I’d feel more at ease. But I don’t think that anymore.

I think this is just how I’m built.

And I’m okay with that.

There’s something about one-on-one conversations that I trust. I don’t have to second-guess what’s being said or wonder if someone is really listening. There’s a weight to it, a kind of honesty that doesn’t exist when the energy is spread too thin.

Like another time last summer, when I was sitting on a park bench, reading. An older man sat beside me, also reading. He was reading The Passenger by Cormac McCarthy. I don’t even remember who spoke first. But before I knew it, we were talking about Jean-Paul Sartre and existentialism. About how books resonate with us differently, how certain ones arrive at the exact moment we need them. He told me about his favorite authors. I told him about mine. We didn’t agree on everything, but that didn’t matter. We heard each other. It was a moment. A good one. And then it ended.

I never saw him again either. And that was okay too.

Because when I look back, those are the moments I remember most. The moments that came out of nowhere, the times when the world faded into the background because I was fully there, with someone who was fully there too.

Even if it was fleeting. Even if it was years ago.

I remember them.

Because they were real.

I’ve always believed that if you lock two people in a room together for long enough, they’ll find something to like about each other. Even people who think they have nothing in common. Even people who might not get along otherwise.

I think it’s because, at the core of everything, we’re all just looking for the same thing. To be seen. To be understood. To have someone sit across from us and say, I hear you.

That’s why I don’t feel the need to chase groups, to fit into dynamics that don’t come naturally to me.

Because I know what I’m looking for.

And I know I’ll find it.

Not all the time. Not every day. Not even all that often.

But I will.

And when I do, I’ll remember it forever.

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