Three years ago, I missed my flight after rushing to the wrong terminal. Crying in frustration, I sat beside a stranger who struck up a conversation. We talked like old friends—about dreams, regrets, even poetry. He told me he’d left finance after his sister’s death to live simply, traveling and freelancing. Before leaving for his rebooked flight, he smiled and said, “If you’re ever in Santa Fe, check out The Blue Finch Café.” We never exchanged names or numbers.
Months later, I quit the job I hated and started writing again. On a whim, I visited that café. Nervously, I read a poem at open mic night. The owner, Colin, encouraged me to submit my work. One zine turned into a chapbook, then a small press book. Slowly, I built a writing life—teaching workshops, giving readings, and finding purpose in words I thought I’d lost.
Then, two years later, I was invited to a retreat. On the guest list was a name I didn’t recognize at first: Navin Singh. A quick search stunned me—he had been the founder of a major investment firm before disappearing from public life. At the retreat, I saw him again. Same crinkled eyes, same thermos. “Wrong terminal girl,” he said. This time, we shared names and kept in touch—no romance, just a friendship built on nudges and encouragement.
Later, I met his sister, alive and healing. She told me Navin often spoke about “the girl at the airport who reminded him of me.” Somehow, our brief encounter had helped him too. Not because I fixed anything, but because I unknowingly reflected back hope.
Today, I live in Santa Fe as writer-in-residence at The Blue Finch. Every Thursday night, I leave an empty chair near the back. Because sometimes, missing the wrong flight puts you exactly where you’re meant to be.
