You were the runner: Worn shoes, tech shirt, running cap, Camelbak.
I was me: Sweaty, miserable, less than halfway into my intended four-mile run.
It was just occurring to me that I shouldn't have set out at noon, when the sun was so high and the trees offered no shade. My intervals had already begun to wilt and I was considering turning back.
I had just broken into another run, trying again, when you came upon me at a jog. I tried averting my eyes, embarrassed, but I couldn't help but lift them and smile. I guess I like people too much, try as I might to not.
And you held out your hand, thumb raised, and said with such conviction: Good job, runner!
Then, we were past, and it was over.
I hope that someday, when I'm a fit and accomplished runner, I might come upon someone struggling to make their way around the block, someone with so much determination on their face and desperation in their eyes; and I hope that when I pass by, I have the presence of mind to smile and tell them how much it means.
Because as simple as it seems, it's unforgettable.
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