I still remember him.
The first time I saw him, it was raining. I was sitting in the corner of a small, quiet cafe that smells of burnt beans and old wood. I was busy with my notebook, trying to finish a thought, when the bell above the door rang. He looked like he had wandered in by mistake. His hair was damp, sticking to his forehead in uneven clumps, and his jacket was slightly oversized and hung off his shoulders. He looked like he had not slept in days. He didn’t stand out. He felt out of place in that cafe. I noticed him, then returned to my notebook.
The shift happened months later on a Tuesday evening. We were walking toward a bus stop, and the wind was biting. I was complaining about a lost pen, and he stopped walking. He did not look at me. He peered at a little crack in the sidewalk where a weed was growing. He reached into his pocket, pulled out a piece of candy, and placed the wrapper carefully back. He said, “Most people look at the sky when they’re lost, but the answers are usually stuck to the bottom of your shoe.”
After that, I began to notice him more closely.
He notices things that other people ignore. He can tell when someone is lying by the way their hand shakes or how the barista hides chipped mugs at the back of the shelf. In conversation, he does not speak in a conventional way. He observes. He waits for the silence to become uncomfortable, then asks a question that lands where it is difficult to respond. He says things casually, like “Life is just a series of things we survive until we don’t,” while chewing on a lollipop.
He often has something in his hand. A lollipop, a toothpick, a plastic stick. He keeps his mouth occupied so he does not need to smile. When he thinks no one is looking, he rubs his temples and stares into space with an expression of concentration. He looks worn in those moments, an exhaustion that sleep does not resolve.
He once told me, “Don’t bother remembering the things that don’t want to be found.” I return to that moment often because of how still he was when he said it. His eyes were distant, yet he seemed aware of everything around him. It felt like he was giving me permission to stop looking for parts of him he had chosen to keep hidden.
When I think of him now, I remember the smell of sugar and cold rain. He made me pause because he was the first person I met who seemed to be living in the aftermath of something significant, yet he never asked for sympathy. He existed within it and occasionally pointed out something he thought was worth mentioning.
If someone met him briefly, they would miss the sharpness. They would see a messy, eccentric man who cannot keep his hair combed and seems slow to respond. They might think he is lazy. With time, it becomes clear that he is always aware of what is happening around him and that he often knows what you are about to say before you finish your sentence.
If I had to describe what makes him unique in one sentence, it would be this: he observes things that most people ignore and keeps facing them, even when it makes him uncomfortable.
I write about Iban culture, ancestral rituals, creative life, emotional truths, and the quiet transformations of love, motherhood, and identity. If this speaks to you, subscribe and journey with me.
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