Sitting in the Denver airport, I’ve got a distinct feeling that the only thing I’m missing is a large cappuccino and the Love Actually theme song. 

I’ve always loved airports. My family doesn’t travel very much and when we do, it’s rarely by plane. Two trips to Disney World, a plane ride to Texas meer weeks before the pandemic hit, a travel gymnastics meet to Florida, a long-awaited flight to NYC, and now, a return flight from a long weekend in Colorado. 

After a twenty-two-minute flight across Colorado, I have four hours to spend in the airport waiting for my connecting flight. As I write this, I’m sitting at a charging port across from my mom and next to one of my best friends. 

Usually, I would be annoyed by having to spend four hours doing anything, but I can’t seem to find it in myself to care. Maybe I’m just too tired, or perhaps it’s the fact that I could never be bored with what’s happening around me. 

Airports are a collage of humanity. Everyone here has somewhere to go, somewhere to be, someone to see. Airports remind me how much life is lived on the planet apart from my own. Everybody has a story; a history, a future, and I don’t know any of them. 

There’s a woman about to miss her flight. Her companion is yelling at her to hurry up, and the whole airport can hear him. I don’t think they care. She’s almost doubled over, out of breath from laughter and her race through the airport. Even the gate agent has a hint of amusement in her voice as she gives the one-minute warning of the doors closing. 

I wonder where she’s going. I think she’s excited—I hope she is.

In the end, she doesn’t miss her flight. They board the plane and the echos of their laughter linger in the air. 

I watch as their plane pulls into the runway.

There’s a couple sprawled on the couch next to me. Her head is on his chest and his fingers are in her hair. They both look half-asleep, sunburned, and happy in their matching Hawaiian shirts; exaggeratedly bright and flowery. 

They were lying there when I first sat down three hours ago and don’t look like they have any plans on moving. 

A woman comes on the intercom with an announcement that she can’t seem to get right, stumbling over her words as she tries to give information about the next flight. She doesn’t sound bothered, and her laughter adds to the struggle.

The longer she goes on, seemingly unable to get the words out, the harder the couple on the couch laughs. They’re almost shaking by the time she finishes. I wonder how their vacation went. Maybe it was their honeymoon, maybe it was their first trip together; whatever it was, they look happy. 

They’re still lying there together when I board my plane.

The airport bathroom is as chaotic as any other.

A woman is changing her baby’s diaper while her toddler son runs in circles around her feet. 

A teenage girl is putting on a full face of makeup, her hair dryer plugged into the wall next to her. She looks tired as she’s in the process of covering up dark circles with her concealer. I wonder where she would rather be. I wonder if she would rather get back on a plane and fly away from whatever she’s putting makeup on for. 

An old woman bends down to feed her dog, people wait in line to use the hand drier, and someone’s phone rings and she answers it, crying. She seems relieved, laughter mingling with her tears.

I don’t know her story. I don’t know any of their stories, and they don’t know mine. They don’t know that I just spent one of the best weekends of my life with my favorite people on the planet. They don’t know that I would rather stay in this airport forever, watching them walk by.

They don’t know my stories, and I don’t know theirs, but we all have one. And here, at this Denver airport, all our stories intertwined.