HotyBarbarha

The Art of Hello 

I’ve always believed that every person carries a story worth hearing. Maybe that’s why I’ve never been shy about saying hello. At twenty-one, I’ve learned that the most beautiful parts of life often begin with a single word, offered with an open smile. It started when I was little. 

My mother used to laugh as I waved to strangers from the car window, declaring them “new friends” before we even parked. I didn’t understand why adults hesitated to talk to one another. Why wait for permission to be kind? Now, as I walk through campus, café, or city street, that same curiosity follows me like sunlight. I notice the details—an elderly man with a mustard-colored scarf and eyes like gentle storms, a girl on the bus tapping rhythmically against her phone case as if she’s composing a secret song, the barista whose tattoos tell entire stories in ink. Each one feels like an unopened book. Some days, I collect stories without meaning to. 

There was the traveler from Portugal I met in line for coffee, who told me he’d been chasing sunrises across continents because he’d once promised his mother he’d never stop looking for beauty. There was the woman at the park bench who confessed, with tears in her eyes, that she was reading the same book her late husband had loved, just to feel close to him again. And there was the child at the farmer’s market who handed me a daisy, declaring me “the queen of flowers” before running off laughing. People say I’m lucky—that I meet the best kinds of souls. But I think they’ve just forgotten how to listen. Most people don’t really want to be invisible; they’re just waiting for someone to notice them. I love being that someone. It’s not always easy, though. Sometimes, I meet people who are closed off, guarded by invisible walls. I’ve learned not to take it personally. 

Everyone has their reasons. Still, I like to believe that even a small act of warmth—a genuine compliment, a curious question—can leave a quiet mark. The truth is, meeting new people isn’t just about them. It’s about me, too. Every encounter shapes me in small, unexpected ways. I’ve become braver, softer, more patient. I’ve learned that laughter sounds different in every language, but it always feels the same. That kindness can bridge any silence. That even a fleeting connection can echo long after goodbye. Sometimes, at night, I lie in bed replaying the day’s encounters like scenes in a film. 

Faces blur into memory, but the feelings stay—the hum of shared laughter, the spark of understanding, the warmth of being part of something human and alive. Tomorrow, I’ll step outside again with my usual quiet excitement. A new day, a new chance to meet another story in motion. Maybe I’ll say hello. Maybe someone will say it first. Either way, I’ll listen. 

That’s where love begins.