Courage in the Rearview Mirror
It happened casually, almost by accident. A voice, a sentence about a fly in the margarine. So banal it could easily have been missed. And yet that was exactly where something began that had long seemed out of reach: a conversation. Not a planned one, not a forced one, but one that simply happened. And suddenly there was this moment in which closeness became possible, because someone else took the first step.
The conversation was brief, and yet it lingered. Not because grand words were spoken, but because her way of thinking was surprising. Because a depth flickered that you hadn’t expected. And because beauty sometimes doesn’t lie in the obvious, but in an attitude, a thought, an unexpected line.
But hardly had the gate opened before it was closed again. She disappeared, as people do when they move on. What remained was a curious mixture: joy that encounter is possible, and irritation that it comes so rarely. Above all, the bitter question: why does it take someone else’s courage for us to become brave ourselves?
It would be easy to say, “Next time I’ll ask for her number.” Easy, because the thought is clear once the situation has already passed. But courage in the rearview mirror is a deceptive currency. It feels big, but it costs nothing. Real courage arises only in the moment, where uncertainty throbs and the heart beats faster.
Perhaps it is precisely this contradiction that is so hard to endure: that you know what you could do, but you don’t do it. That your gut has long been shouting yes while your head still hesitates. And that the opportunity passes faster than you can outsmart yourself.
So in the end only a quiet realization remains: courage is rarely a possession. It is a visitor. It knocks, stays for a few moments and disappears if you don’t open. But perhaps the memory of that visit is enough not to wait next time.
