Everyone is a stranger until you get to know them. But even once they offer their name and shake your hand, how much do you really know? How much do you know about them, and more importantly, how much do you learn?

There's one thing I have noticed, though. About the shaking hands, I mean. No one tends to shake hands on an airplane. Sure, small talk is made; the weather, business or vacation, what do you do, etc. But after the first 15 minutes, the conversations die down. I like long naps as much as the next person, but I also love to talk. You'd think an airplane would be the best place to get to know someone. You're all stuck in a flying metal object for a few hours, and you already have your destination in common. You might as well talk.

The last time I was on a plane, I was trying to get to Greenville, North Carolina. I was trapped in the Charlotte airport; my flight had gotten delayed, my gate changed, and I was desperate to get on the plane. I was visiting my boyfriend, whom I hadn't seen in two months (which might not sound like a long time, but when college weekdays seem to last for years, it had seemed like an eternity). The flight was only for an hour and a half, so I thought I could take a quick nap (it was past 10 after all). The plane was small, probably the smallest I've ever been on. The aisles were so narrow I barely had to stretch out my arm to touch the person sitting across from me.

My mother was texting me as I boarded the plane. "Who are you sitting with?" she wanted to know. The window seat next to me remained empty for nearly 10 minutes until a middle-aged man asked to squeeze past me. I'll admit: a small part of me felt a twinge uncomfortable. A bad habit, I guess, formed by my childhood shyness and every slanderous thing I've seen about white men on social media since 2016. My seat partner, however, felt none of that. He began talking the moment he sat down.

"Un hombre, but he seems nice. Talkative." I texted back.

My seat partner, Dave, as he introduced himself, had something to say about everything. He asked about my plans after college, why I was in North Carolina, how often I travel. Basic questions that I answered and asked back. But somehow, the conversation shifted. I mentioned my boyfriend (as I am wont to do in any casual conversation), and suddenly the conversation turned to traits to look for in a partner (a sense of humor), the most important characteristics for a person to have (kindness). From there, we went to theology and philosophy. "We were made to love and be loved," he told me. "Even just as strangers. We are supposed to love."

There are many things that have happened in my life that I did not expect to happen. I did not expect to be accepted into my top choice university. I didn't expect to thrive in college. I never expected to fall in love with an incredible person, and I definitely never expected to learn about love from a stranger on an airplane.

Dave continued with his speech, for that's really what it was. He would pause, like a seasoned professor, to hear my thoughts on the matter, or he would ask a question and my answer would lead to a slight tangent on the matter. But no matter how seemingly off-topic we got (journalism, engineering, gun violence), the conversation always steered back to love. As the plane began its descent, we came to a conclusion. People know how to love in the abstract. I mean, we think we know what love is from fairytales and movies. But we've got it all wrong. Love isn't always fanciful with flourishing background music. Love is kindness. With that statement, we came full circle. As the plane was taking off, when the lights were still on, Dave had asked me what I look for in a partner. I began listing off everything I admired about my boyfriend (which is quite a lengthy list), but the very first thing I said was, "He has to be kind."

Everyone is a stranger until you get to know them. But that doesn't mean you can't be kind. That's what I learned on this hour-long flight. Always be kind.

As the lights in the plane turned on and I stood up to get my carry-on, Dave shook my hand again. We exchanged formalities, back to stranger status. "You know," he told me, still shaking my hand, "we might never see each other ever again, but it doesn't matter." I asked why—it was a strange way to say goodbye. This stranger (for that's what he would become the moment I stepped off the airplane) only smiled.

"What matters is that we shared this moment, this love that is expected of us." He let go of my hand. "For this one hour, we were everything we are supposed to be."