CEDARVILLE — Beans and Cream coffee shop is located at the intersection of Highway 72 in Ohio and Highway 42 in the United States. The coffee shop in this old bank building has several tables with glass countertops.

Most of the time, they provide views of old artifacts and antiques in the space below: metal type samples that were once used for publication, other old daddy in the past, and old-fashioned printed materials.

But earlier this month, when I was finishing a column and packing up and preparing to leave, my welcome time was over. I saw something else through the glass: a clean white napkin with a message written on it. The handwriting is small and clear, written in what was once called neat handwriting. The light touch needed to write on a napkin without tearing it makes the letters blurred.

Therefore, I slide the glass back, pull out the napkin, push the glass back to its original position, and put the paper strip on the glass.

What I found was an extraordinary message of 124 words—most of us would like to see the message floating in a bottle at an important moment in our lives, but few of us would write it—certainly not me.

For the author of this unsigned note, if he or she has ever read this column, what I want to say is. You may have reason to say that I violated your privacy while writing this article. But I can't control myself.

Because your notes tell about private moments that most of us will experience in our lives. Your message is that it is an example of how to deal with challenges gracefully and soberly.

In my life where I often hope to be able to take out the operating manual when I need it, your notes are the notes I hope to find in such a book.

From the moment you put the pencil on the napkin, you seem to be as calm as the notebook body. This impressed me the most, because when I encountered the same situation for the first time, I couldn't talk to myself, let alone any meaningful information.

For me, it happened on Columbia Street in Springfield in November 1973. It was one of the gray days in November, the cold of winter was approaching, and the heater of my friend's Volkswagen Beetle had not started yet.

The interior of the car is like a metal cave that amplifies road noise: tires are stuck to the sidewalk, the slightest bump, the heaviest crash and the low roar of the truck engine seem to penetrate the metal of the Beetle from the next lane.

I can’t hear it. I can only feel the hard metal shell of the Beetle magnifying the thing that passes through my skull. I feel disoriented. I need a seat belt, shoulder strap and airbag, but the last one is not there yet.

The song by Joni Mitchell released the following year describes my state. Its opening line-also the song's title and plea-is: "Help me." The first line goes on to explain why she needs it so desperately: "I think I am in love with you."

This is why the calm nature of your notes on the napkin shocked me so much.

Tap the sleeve lightly and you can open it gracefully.

Hey, can I talk to you?

Because the word "end of this semester" appears downstream of the notes, it is clear that this is in a university environment. Therefore, the reason for the conversation can be anything: homework, discussion in group meetings, continuation of the conversation.

In a way, I think the last description is the closest, because you start with something you have previously talked to with the anonymous person you are contacting.

I know you value honesty, and I want to be honest with you now and tell you that I like you.

If I drove a Volkswagen in Springfield in 1973, I might use the word "value" before spitting out something like a hairball. Then I will drive the car to the side of the road, this is the end of me and me.

Maybe this is why you wrote it.

Before I forget, you are right to choose "like" instead of "love".

Your thoughtfulness has both practical and emotional aspects—and recognize the risks involved.

As your next line recognizes, this is a risk for both of you.

I know that if you don’t think so, it might change our friendship. But when I say that I really cherish the friendship with you, I am serious.

Even when talking about it, you are watching from the edge of the cliff. But this rope creates a safety rope that at least provides a slower and gentler chance of landing than that provided by a fall.

Then you clearly state what you want to survive..

I don't want that (friendship) to change because of what I just told you.

Then you can lessen the blow that readers might feel.

I'm sorry to tell you this before the end of the semester, but it feels like it's time.

This makes me think about how to choose time, what we have to do by ourselves. Waiting too long is also dangerous. The same goes for talking too fast. But one must say what one must say. And at this moment, you speak out.

What do you think about me?

Then, with all the courage you need to be straightforward, you return to the common value you established, what is your right to establish in common: an answer.

Don't worry that your answer will hurt me. I hope you are as honest as I am.

Over the years, I have watched a few episodes of Great Performances.

And yours is one of them.

Regardless of the result, congratulations.

As you may know, I put the napkin back under the glass.