missing someone who lived in that space between stranger and friend.

I’ve checked in at Sunnyside on N. May more times than I can count.

It’s part of my routine. It’s where I take friends and family. When you go somewhere almost weekly, you stop being just a customer. You become familiar.

At first, they ask, “How are you?”

Eventually it becomes,

“How did that presentation go?”

“Did you watch the Thunder game?”

“Do you think the Broncos will cover?”

They knew me.

And I knew them.

I knew the tall guy was the funniest person there.

I knew the girl with the fun earrings wanted to be seen.

And I knew the short guy—the best server—was performing a version of himself.

Because I’ve performed that version too.

We never exchanged last names.

We never hung out outside those walls.

But we existed in each other’s routine.

Last week, he died.

And I don’t know what to do with that feeling.

He wasn’t my family.

He wasn’t my close friend.

But he also wasn’t nothing.

He was part of my life in that quiet, consistent way that routine creates.

And now the next time I walk in, he won’t be there.

It’s strange how you can genuinely miss someone who lived in that space between stranger and friend.

But I do.

Some people aren’t part of your life story—but they’re part of your life rhythm. And when they’re gone, you feel the silence.