4288 results found in Missed Connections, United States

We stood in line together at Portillo’s after the Sox game, debating whether cake shakes are genius or gross. Your laughter is still stuck in my head—I chickened out before I could ask for your number.

To the curly-haired woman reading "The Alchemist" across from me on the Blue Line last Thursday morning—our eyes met when the train jolted and you smiled. I wanted to ask about your favorite book, but my stop arrived. If you see this, maybe we can swap book recommendations in person.

Sunday morning, you danced with abandon to the jazz band by the bakery stand, and your joy was contagious. I was the one who dropped my pastries watching you—would love to see that groove again.

You ordered the last barbacoa taco right before me at the food truck on St. Mary’s, then apologized with a shy smile. If you ever want to split a taco (or a laugh) next time, let’s meet again.

You were the tourist trying on every cowboy hat at the Alamo gift shop, and I was the local who offered you directions to the River Walk. Our laughter echoed among the souvenirs, but I never got your name—hoping fate gives me another shot.

Sunday morning, you danced with abandon to the jazz band by the bakery stand, and your joy was contagious. I was the one who dropped my pastries watching you—would love to see that groove again.

You ordered the last barbacoa taco right before me at the food truck on St. Mary’s, then apologized with a shy smile. If you ever want to split a taco (or a laugh) next time, let’s meet again.

You were the tourist trying on every cowboy hat at the Alamo gift shop, and I was the local who offered you directions to the River Walk. Our laughter echoed among the souvenirs, but I never got your name—hoping fate gives me another shot.

You were the tourist trying on every cowboy hat at the Alamo gift shop, and I was the local who offered you directions to the River Walk. Our laughter echoed among the souvenirs, but I never got your name—hoping fate gives me another shot.

Sunday morning, you danced with abandon to the jazz band by the bakery stand, and your joy was contagious. I was the one who dropped my pastries watching you—would love to see that groove again.

You ordered the last barbacoa taco right before me at the food truck on St. Mary’s, then apologized with a shy smile. If you ever want to split a taco (or a laugh) next time, let’s meet again.

You were the tourist trying on every cowboy hat at the Alamo gift shop, and I was the local who offered you directions to the River Walk. Our laughter echoed among the souvenirs, but I never got your name—hoping fate gives me another shot.