A Chance Encounter

Where Coffee Brews More Than Caffeine

Lately, I’ve been thinking about coincidences.

Not the small ones-running into a coworker at the grocery store, noticing two strangers reading the same paperback. I mean the kind that arrive suddenly, inexplicably, like whispers from something just beyond perception, nudging you to notice the threads connecting moments you never realized were linked.

Today, I found myself at Remedy Coffee, one of my newer obsessions in Albuquerque. At first glance, it’s unassuming-just a corner storefront, a muted sign, a door that hums quietly as you push it open. But then the quirks emerge: a menu with tongue-in-cheek names framing coffee as cure, cups marked with tiny prescription-style stickers, the occasional pun tucked into the décor. Each detail makes me laugh, a private joke with the universe-the notion that caffeine could somehow heal what life has bruised. And yet, as I stood in line ordering my lavender latte, inhaling the faint floral scent, I couldn’t shake the feeling that maybe it wasn’t a joke at all. Maybe this place, these details, were more meaningful than I realized.

The café carries layers of memory. Years ago, I had been here with my friend Lauren, who insisted we photograph the ristras-brilliant red strings of dried chiles hanging like braids of fire across New Mexico porches. I remember the sunlight cutting sharp across her face as she laughed, the desert light so intense it almost hurt. I posed beneath them, the heat prickling my skin, my smile caught somewhere between effort and wonder. Today, standing in nearly the same spot, I was struck by the strange elasticity of time-it seemed to fold in on itself, pulling me backward and forward at once.

But my mind wasn’t fully present. It had been a brutal week-days handing me things I never asked for, each one heavier than the last. A near-death moment that made fragility feel sharp and urgent. A paper rejection. A shelf exam. A passive-aggressive email lodged like a pebble in my shoe, rubbing at my patience and pride. My thoughts circled endlessly: Which decisions were right? Which catastrophically wrong? Life felt like a film reel, endlessly playing mundanity mixed with absurdity, each frame sharper than the last.

And then she appeared.

A woman-late twenties, maybe early thirties-with curly hair and a face that carried both intelligence and ease. She stopped, looked at me, and said I looked familiar.

THE EXACT SPOT OF THE ENCOUNTER

REMEDY COFFEE - AUGUST 24, 2025

For a second, I thought she was mistaken. I glanced down at myself: black tank top, red running shorts, white Nike swoosh catching the light, beads of sweat from a three-hour gym session clinging to my skin. I laughed nervously, said she looked familiar too, though I couldn’t place her.

Then, as if following some invisible script, she asked if I had gone to Stanford. The question stopped me mid-breath. Nothing about me, not my clothes, my posture, or the sheen of sweat in my curly black hair, could have betrayed that fact. When I said yes, she smiled with the quiet satisfaction of someone who already knew the answer. She mentioned she might be hosting someone I knew, and then, almost offhandedly, revealed she was from the Basque region of Spain.

My stomach dropped. She was right. I knew him, the man I’d been seeing, though only in fleeting traces, scattered moments that seemed to pull me in without warning. Days had passed in a blur of magnetic, unpredictable encounters. By yesterday and again today, I had stepped away, leaving something unspoken between us. What he sought was clear, though it was never what I wanted.

And yet the encounter wasn’t entirely blind. On our date in Old Town, overlooking the square where couples spun to the sound of live music, he had mentioned her in passing. I already knew her name, knew of her, though not her face. And now here she was, stepping out of memory into flesh, tethered to him by circumstance and to me by recognition.

She laughed lightly, admitting he had once shown her photos of me. I replied that he had spoken of her with warmth. And just like that, the conversation turned. She told me she teaches math, and from there we wandered into politics, immigration, the hospital system, the endless work of “figuring life out.” The words were simple, yet they carried a weight beyond their surface, moving quickly but settling deeply, strangely profound.

What are the odds? That I would walk into that café at that exact moment, that she would notice me, connect me to someone who had filled so much space in my mind?

I wanted to dismiss it as chance. It didn’t feel like chance. It felt orchestrated, nudged by some unseen hand, like fate leaning in to whisper its story.

I don’t know what it means. Maybe nothing. But I walked away lighter, almost in awe, as if the universe had brushed me on the shoulder to say: See? Not everything ends. Some things begin again, in other forms, at other times.

We parted with a handshake and a smile. She disappeared into the afternoon, dissolving into the light. I carried my iced lavender latte into the sun, its floral sweetness cutting through the week’s weight, cold in my palms, and something stirring inside me.

For the first time in days, I let myself believe in coincidence-not as accident, but as possibility.

Love, Sami