To the girl who’s so nice that I always assumed she was trying to sell me something,
I’m sorry I never learned your name.

When you approached me six years ago,
I sat alone
and bitter.

I felt sure of myself,
resent for everyone else,
and confident in my solace.

I was 18 years old -
first week of college -
I knew it all
and needed no one.

Maybe you saw through
my cool-guy, loner disguise.
Maybe you too
Hid sadness inside.

Maybe your thoughts
weren’t as wholesome as your appearance.
Maybe you needed
a friend.

You walked up to me as I ate my lunch,
said “hi” and pitched me niceties.
I let them float by without even a swing -
a dozen or so
easy throws.

Maybe if I
had asked you to sit,
I’d have seen you weren’t looking down on me.

Maybe if I
had asked your name,
I’d have known that it wasn’t Charity.

You gifted a smile
Before walking away.
Not a hint of exhaustion,
no exasperated face -
Just patience,
kindness.

“I’ll see you around”
and indeed you did.
I learned to spot you in a crowd
of 10,000, proud
to be proficient in avoidance.

I’d avert my eyes
with you a mile away -
look to nothing in the sky,
at my phone, or books -
to avoid that look
and the smile that followed.

To the girl who’s so nice that I always assumed she was trying to sell me something,
I hope you’re well.
I hope to one day return your kindness.