Letters to a Stranger #3

Dear Arsh, 

Have you ever heard of synchronicity? It’s a belief that everything that happens to you in life is meant to and that each moment leads to the next. For example, when you feel a chapter in your life has closed, or you just found that random book you thought would change your life, or you arrive late to a work event only to get there right on time to meet the most important person, it’s believed that happens intentionally. Although I am sure there are flaws in this belief, I find it present right now because I’m writing to you from the Atlanta Airport, which I find funny since I met you on a flight back to the United States. 

When we met, I believe it was at play then too. I had just completed my first international trip where I visited my friend whose currently on a Fulbright in Germany. The trip ended with a heart-felt farewell, and a promise to see each other again when I traveled to Spain. So, I spent my last few moments in Germany staring out the plane window, processing my week-long trip and thinking of my upcoming adventures. What would life in Spain be like? What would I learn while traveling between countries? How would all of this change my life? That’s when you sat down next to me, despite my initial displeasure. 

Upon you sitting down, at first I felt annoyed. In my opinion, the plane was a below-average-sized one, it was cramped with people, there were already so many children on the flight, and I had spent the majority of boarding secretly hoping no one would fill the seat next to me. However, after taking a breath to let go of my irritation, I sparked small talk. I figured a lone teenager would be nervous to fly to another country by themselves, especially if it meant sitting next to a random man who most likely had some sort of scowl. 

“Where are you flying to,” I asked as I moved my things to make space for you. 

“Just Canada. My parents are going to pick me up there,” you mumbled, settling into your seat. You looked over at me. “What about you?” 

“I’m heading back home to the US. So I have a connecting flight in Canada that’ll take me to Atlanta. Are you from Canada?”

“Oh,” you laughed a little, “no, I’m from India.” I’m sure you thought my question was funny since you did have an accent, but I didn’t want to assume so quickly. Before I could ask you how a teenager from India ended up on a flight to Canada during the school year, you began telling me your story, explaining your entire trip and ending on a confiding note. “This is my first trip by myself.” 

“Ever?”

“Ever. I’ve never traveled by myself.” 

I laughed a little, impressed. My first time traveling was around your age and it felt like I just introduced myself to a younger me. Perhaps I did, though I couldn’t imagine traveling internationally by myself at your age. You had just finished your exams for school and told me how you wanted to do more in life and see the world instead of being stuck in school. I remember thinking the same thing as I sat on a GrayHound to Boston at sixteen. 

“How are you feeling,” I probed. I didn’t expect an in-depth answer, but I knew just being a nice stranger would make this trip feel, hopefully, a little better. 

“Nervous,” you replied. “I’ve never flown internationally before, or on a plane at all.” 

“Oh…well, this will be smooth. We’ll get up in the air and we’ll cruise all the way there. Just sleep if you can. I always do.” You nodded, and that ended our conversation. Soon, we were off in the air. 

I, having flown many times before, pulled out all my in-flight entertainment: headphones, a book, and a journal. You, currently on your first-ever flight, sat there, staring at the seat in front of you. I waited, thinking you would do something to fill the 7 hours of airtime. We took off, climbed through the air, hit our cruising altitude, adjusted, and drifted through the sky for about 30 minutes or so before I stopped reading. Another 15 minutes passed then I took off my headphones. 

“Did you not bring anything to do,” I poked. I felt silly sitting next to you with a backpack full of books, two sets of wireless headphones, and two sets of wired headphones that were given to me on my flight to Germany.

“...no. I didn’t know what to bring,” you replied, shyly. Having just finished a book I only started a few weeks ago and having a spare one in preparation for finishing said book, I considered giving you mine. Within a second I was reaching into my bag to find it. 

“One second,” I laughed, rummaging through all the random things I had. I pulled out the book, its red cover and yellow lettering screaming with its reveal. I, in all honesty, did not enjoy reading it. I found myself not liking the main character, and being bored with the story. Not only that, I had just come from reading an in-depth memoir that left me wondering about if I should pursue writing, which was a sharp contrast to a YA novel that did not leave much of an impression on me. But, I did wonder if I was the wrong audience for it. I also envisioned having my own private library one day, and part of any library is lending a book that you may never see again. 

I thought to myself that the book could stay with me, sitting on my bookshelf never to be read again or I could lend it to you right now in hopes of you finding something in the book that I didn’t. I risked never seeing it again. I looked at you, thinking about the effect random acts of kindness from strangers had on me while traveling. I could recall so many of them, each one restoring a bit of my faith in people. 

“You can read this if you want,” I tried to say casually. I’m sure my excitement eliminated any possibility of that, still, I tried. 

“What? Are you sure?”

“Yeah, keep it,” I shrugged. “Here, I’ll write a note in it and you can let me know what you think when you’ve read it.”  I reached for a pen, found one quickly, and jotted a simple note on the inside of the front page. 

“Oh, okay. You’re sure? Really, I’ll be fine,” you protested. 

“Seriously. I’m a writer so I’ll read more. Plus, I wasn’t the hugest fan of this book anyway, so you can let me know what you think. Maybe you’ll like it more than I did.”

“You’re a writer? Did you work on this?”

I laughed at the idea of having a published novel right now. “No, not at all. Just started out.”

You nodded, taking the book. I attempted to not stare down your shoulder in anticipation of when you’d start reading. To distract myself, I went to the other novel in my hands. 

The rest of the plane ride was simple, despite a few turbulence bumps and a late landing. As we hurriedly parted ways since I had a connecting flight to catch, I hoped I’d hear from you sometime in the future. Maybe when you finished the book, or maybe years down the road when you see the book on your shelf and remember the note inside. I also considered I could never hear from you because my handwriting is simply atrocious, especially when using my knee as a hard surface on a plane. Upon writing this, I decided there is absolutely no way I could know, and only time will tell. 

So, if you ever see this, did you find anything in the book? 

Best,

KeShawn