This will be the diary documenting my journey to pursue and have him.
Everything might be difficult, but I believe I can do it.
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February 16, 2019
4:47 PM
My name is Benjamin Clarke. I'm 32 years old. I work as a security guard at a rundown grocery store on Fifth Street.
My life is nothing. Every day the same: wake up, work, go home. Months pass like this. Years.
I thought I would die this way—alone, forgotten, invisible.
But then he appeared.
It was a Saturday afternoon, two days after Valentine's Day. I was standing outside the store, watching people pass. That's all I ever do. Watch.
Then he walked up to me.
He was young—mid-twenties, maybe. Black hair, bright eyes. Wearing a grey coat and carrying a leather bag. He looked like he was going somewhere important. Like his life mattered.
"Excuse me," he said. "Do you know how to get to the Peterson Building from here?"
I froze.
He smiled. Waiting.
He had crooked front teeth—just slightly overlapping. Most people would hide a smile like that. But he didn't care. He just smiled at me like I was a normal person. Like I was worth smiling at.
I don't remember what I said. I think I pointed down the street. My hand was shaking.
He thanked me. He actually thanked me.
Then he left.
I wanted to ask his name. I wanted to say something—anything—to make him stay. But my throat closed up and he was already walking away.
I stood there for twenty minutes after he left, staring at the spot where he'd been standing.
That night, I couldn't sleep. I kept seeing his face. His smile. The way he tilted his head when he asked the question.
I've worked at that store for eight years. Thousands of people have walked past me. But I remember everything about him—the exact time, the exact words, the exact way the light hit his face.
I knew, even then, that this wasn't normal.
I didn't care.
…
…
…
11:34 PM
I'm home now. My apartment is small. One room, a bathroom, a kitchen that's barely big enough to turn around in. The walls are thin. I can hear my neighbor's television through the plaster.
I've lived here for six years. I hate it.
But tonight, it feels different. Warmer, somehow. Like something has changed.
I'm sitting on my bed, writing this. I can't stop thinking about him.
His voice. It was soft, polite. He said "excuse me" before asking his question. Most people don't bother with that. They just demand things from me like I'm a fixture, something that exists to serve them.
But he was different. He looked at me. Really looked at me.
I keep replaying the moment in my head. The way he approached. The grey coat—it looked expensive, well-made. The leather bag over his shoulder—brown, worn at the edges like he'd had it for years.
His hands. I noticed his hands. Long fingers, clean nails. No ring.
He wasn't wearing a ring.
I don't know why that matters to me, but it does.
When he smiled, I saw a small dimple in his left cheek. Just one. The right side of his face stayed smooth.
I want to see that smile again.
No—I need to see it again.
I've been lying here for three hours, staring at the ceiling. Every time I close my eyes, I see him. Walking toward me. Smiling. Leaving.
I keep thinking about what I should have said. I should have asked where he was going. I should have offered to walk him there. I should have asked his name.
Why didn't I ask his name?
I'm an idiot. A coward.
But maybe it's not too late. The Peterson Building—that's where he was going. It's an office complex about four blocks from the store. Big glass building, lots of companies inside.
Maybe he works there. Maybe he goes there every day.
Maybe I'll see him again.