New York City is filled with spontaneous moments. You'll meet people and encounter situations that will impact you in ways you will never forget. This particular night in lower Manhattan was one of those occasions.

Saturday evening, early May at approximately 12 a.m., I wandered around the downtown area of the city looking for an open pizza place. The financial district is notorious for closing its stores, restaurants, banks, and any other business you could think of before 7 p.m., which makes attempting to satisfy late night pizza cravings nearly impossible. It also makes me skeptical of the phrase, “New York City, the city that never sleeps.”

Since it was getting reasonably late, I searched near my apartment on 1 West Street next to Battery Park and the Hudson river. There is a hidden R train that runs close to this vicinity, and it is surrounded by liquor shops displaying neon signs, a TGI Friday’s, and a pizza shop (to my dismay all were closed, including the pizza shop).

Just as I was about to head home, pizza-less and disappointed, I heard a voice muffled by sobs from behind. I turned and observed a man in his late 20s wearing a sophisticated but undone blue suit struggling to keep balance on the sidewalk in front of the entrance to the R train.

The whole scene was puzzling, half comedic and half heartbreaking. After watching him fall to the cement in a heap a few times, I walked over to the troubled man and asked him if he was alright.

I helped him to his feet, and when we were eye-level, I saw tears gliding down his face and bright blue eyes masked with defeat. His gaze was unable to focus, but he was coherent enough to understand my questions and half-reply to them.

“Are you alright?” I repeated.

He just kept looking at me, like a puppy does when it's waiting for you to pet it or give it a scrap of food from dinner. So, I moved on.

“Do you need a hug?” I offered.

His face lit up as much as it would allow and he slightly nodded. I gave him the hug that I thought I would need if I were in his position. He seemed to sober up some afterwards and began to speak. We exchanged names and I asked him what he was doing in the streets of New York City alone and drunk and crying on a Saturday night.

Instead of answering he pulled out a pack of cigarettes and asked me for a lighter.

I handed him a lighter and assisted him to the curb to sit down. He flicked the lighter on and lit the cigarette that was propped in his mouth, eyes still watery and bloodshot. As he exhaled the smoke, he looked up and pointed to a nearby skyscraper. It was glass, sleek, beautiful, and the tallest in the clump of buildings.

“I made that,” he mumbled.

I looked at him in disbelief, then at the creation, then back at him. I let him explain. His words slurred together but I was able to comprehend most of his story. He said that he had previously worked for a successful architecture company and was the head of the project for this particular building. He told me about how long it took him to get through architecture school and how designing buildings had been his passion since he was a little kid. He said that when he looked at buildings, he saw art, beauty, a story and an immense amount of time, planning, and hard work.

He then went on to tell me that he no longer worked in the architecture industry. Instead, he landed a job at Goldman Sachs and was making a significantly higher salary there, but there was something missing at this job. There was no passion, no appreciation, no satisfaction felt after coming home from a day at the office.

I'd like to believe that this night was the breaking point for this man. He poured out how much he missed doing what he loved and how his coworkers were “the greediest bastards he’d ever met.” He just kept repeating how so few people acknowledge the beauty that these buildings hold, yet they pass by them every day.

My advice to the crying, drunk man in the streets was to make a change. I told him he could stay quiet at his current job, and let the grimy hands of unappreciative, selfish people beat his passionate soul down, or he could be a positive influence to encourage his coworkers to see past the figures in their bank accounts. He could stay at Goldman Sachs and make a ridiculous income but always feel a void, or he could return to what truly satisfies his passions. As I spoke, the man listened silently, puffing away at his cigarette and staring at his building.

After we conversed for almost two hours, he looked at me with eyes that were no longer filled will tears and despair, but with gratitude and hope. He hailed a taxi and climbed into the back, thanking me again before shutting the car door.

I began to stroll home and before walking through the revolving doors of my apartment building, I looked out at the Statue of Liberty across the gleaming Hudson, the early morning sky, and the building that the stranger whom I had just stumbled upon designed. I rode the elevator to the 22nd floor that night lacking pizza and feeling hungry, but my heart felt full.