I’ve never been one to approach a stranger. Perhaps that might be because the word most commonly paired with the term is “danger,” constructing a catchy rhyme that has been used to scare kids for decades. But, in environments where my safety is somewhat guaranteed — crowds, school, places where I can scream and someone will hear me — my reluctance does not stem from fear, but rather from an awkwardness and somewhat of a deep-seated desire to stay safe and comfortable in my own familiar little world. 

Of course, I’ll exchange a brief smile or pleasantries with someone in close proximity, but otherwise, I don’t do much to encourage conversation. I look away, purposefully turning my body in the opposite direction as I engage with my phone, a book, or even my own thoughts. When I’m with my friends as well, this feeling of wanted isolation from strangers intensifies, as I seldom feel the need to branch out and make new connections when I’m surrounded by those I’m familiar with. 

This is a long way of saying that I mostly keep to myself in public. And, to be honest, I expect the same from others.

But, standing in Barnes and Nobles with two of my friends, the most unexpected thing happened: a stranger came up to us. Well, more accurately, two. 

We had been chatting fervently in front of the manga section, reliving the excitement and thrill these books had evoked in us as children, when I felt a little tap on my shoulder along with a quiet “excuse me.” I turned to see a middle-aged man, and at first, I was frightened he was going to reprimand us for talking too loudly—which, indeed we were. But then he smiled, gesturing towards a young girl captivated by the same bookshelves we were looking at; she stood on her tippy toes, attempting to get a better view as she slowly scanned the selection. That was his daughter, he proceeded to explain, and she was in search of a new series to read. He asked if we could provide her any recommendations. 

What followed was perhaps one of the most wholesome moments of my life. After conducting a mini-interview with her about what she had read previously and what genres she liked (quite the dichotomy of morbid, graphic action paired with angsty romance), we began the hunt, running frantically through the different aisles as we pulled out a diversity of manga. Each sparked its own debate between the three of us—a mayhem of agreements and disagreements about what would be interesting to her—until our small council finally reached a consensus and we were able to present the synopsis to her. She  considered each book seriously, raising her eyebrows as she carefully considered the storyline and characters, before giving us a final answer: a slight nod of approval, or more often, a polite but firm shake of the head. Her dad listened closely as well, making sure to jot down any potential series on his phone. 

She ended up taking two books home that day. I felt such pride watching her clutch the books in her hands, grinning cheerfully at them while her dad shared in her expressive enthusiasm. He thanked us profusely afterwards. 

“You guys made her day,” he said. 

I never got their names. But, from our small interaction, I felt so endeared and fulfilled by the notion of getting to know them both, even if it was only for 30 minutes: to get a glimpse into the lives of a caring father and a passionate daughter, courageous enough to walk up to strangers, finding and discussing a commonality between us all. 

It made my day. 

I realize now that my aversion to interaction came from that very expectation that those around me felt the same. It was a self-fulfilling prophecy in that sense, in which I enclosed myself in my own personal sphere, leading people to respond in that very manner. But, in this, I forgot just how innately social we are. Humans thrive on the relationships we make with one another. The bonds we form with other people, however long or short they may be, are what sustain us as beings; simply, they open up our world to new branches of connection. 

Thus, why let each other be strangers? Why let conversations go unspoken, similarities go undiscovered, and manga recommendations go unknown? 

 I rather think I ought to strike up conversations with strangers more often. Perhaps, like I did that fateful day in the manga section of Barnes and Nobles, I’ll leave with friends.