I was leaving the grocery store when the cashier handed me an extra bag and gave me a strange, almost worried look. As I reached for it, he leaned in and whispered, “I have to warn you. Hurry!” My heart skipped. Clutching it tightly, I rushed out to my car, curiosity buzzing in my chest.

Inside the bag was a plain white envelope with my name scrawled across it. I opened it slowly, half expecting something dramatic. Instead, there was just a single handwritten note. It read, “You need to stop rushing through life. You’re missing too much.”

I sat there for a moment, stunned, then let out a nervous laugh. It felt random, but weirdly personal—like the universe had decided to speak to me through a grocery store cashier. And deep down, I knew it was true. Lately, everything in my life had been a blur of work, chores, and deadlines.

That note stayed with me. On the drive home, I didn’t blast music or check my phone—I watched the sunset. I noticed people. I breathed. Maybe it was just a stranger’s prank or kindness. But it worked. I’ve been moving slower ever since.