On a Sunday afternoon flight from Tampa to Chicago, I settled into my window seat. The flight was hours late, the cabin stiflingly full. You made your way down the aisle, stowed your duffle in crowded overhead, and wedged into the middle seat between me and a man on the aisle. Deep in my book, I hardly looked up except to note that you wore a deep blue winter jacket, which seemed out of place even though the local weather was much cooler than usual.

You boarded with a woman who took the same middle seat in the row behind us, and it crossed my mind that it was unfortunate that you were not sitting together. In the dog-eat-dog world of commercial travel, them’s the breaks.

The flight eventually took off, and I read and dozed, waking to request a ginger ale and pretzels, noticing you asked for water, no ice, which you drank quickly, and a cookie that sat uneaten on your beige tray table.

The jolt of the wheels of the aircraft touching down woke me with a start, and as the plane ground to a stop, I saw you were sleeping, too. Or I thought you were. You’d pulled the hood of your sweatshirt up over your head and down into your eyes. The plane filled with the sounds of cell phone notifications coming in as Airplane Mode was turned off, and you picked up your phone from the pocket of the seat in front of you.

After texting my husband, 'Just landed!' I tucked my phone away and started gathering my things. That’s when I noticed your screen—dozens of messages. You opened one. 'I’m so sorry for your loss…'

Your head bent over, and you pulled your hood even further over your face. An announcement declared that we were still waiting for a gate, and that several people were trying to make close connections, and could we let them depart first once we did begin to depart the plane.

The woman you boarded with spoke to the flight attendant and she gave you a nod as she moved briskly down the aisle. Then I noticed your head shaking, your hand clutching the white airline-branded cocktail napkin that had accompanied your drink, dabbing your eyes, silently sobbing.

I felt my chest tighten as my heart broke for you. I debated what to do. I was a stranger, intruding on your private grief made public by the cruel lottery of airline seating. And yet, I wanted to hug you.

To tell you, I remember flying the reverse route from Chicago to Florida with my 14-day-old infant son in my lap on the way to my father’s funeral. Receiving texts and notes with condolences expressed sincerely and me, grateful but too numb with grief and the exhaustion of the first weeks of motherhood to open them.

To say that I feel terrible you had the middle seat away from your companion, that had I known, I would have traded so you could sit together.

To say that grief is like a river that sometimes feels manageable and other times knocks you off your feet when you least expect it, days, weeks, years later.

To say I’m so, so sorry.

I said none of this as this man sat mere inches away, shaking soundlessly. I reached into my bag, found the standard-mom-issue travel pack of tissues, and pulled one from the plastic. I gently touched his arm and offered it to him.

“Would you like a tissue?” I asked. His eyes met mine for a moment. Big, brown eyes, set in a dark face lined with sadness. “Oh, thank you,” he said. “Thank you so much.”

And with that, he began to cry more audibly, as if something broke loose and the dam simply overflowed. I squeezed his arm softly. “Of course,” I said, handing him the rest of the pack. “Maybe you’ll want these, too.”

He nodded under his hood, sliding them into his pocket.

The cabin lights flashed, and an announcement rang out that we’d arrived, asking us to let those making connections disembark first. He shifted his weight to stand, climbing over the man on the aisle, reaching for his duffle bag above. His eyes caught mine again. His hood was down now, his exposed face glistening with unwiped tears, eyes swollen.

From the aisle, he turned and spoke to me, his voice shaking, just above a whisper. “Thank you so much. It means more than you know.”

My voice caught in my throat and my eyes welled. All I could manage was a weak smile and a nod. I touched my hand over my heart; he nodded and was gone. Down the aisle and off to hopefully make his connection. Off to what I can only assume was going home from an event commemorating a loss or heading into one.

It’s been a few weeks since I, too, took my bags, left that airplane, hailed a cab, and traveled home into the arms of my waiting family. That evening, I held my sons close, hugged my husband a little longer, and melted into the comfort of home.

Man in the Middle Seat, I think of you so much. I send you peace. I wish you well. I hope your journey ended in the warm embrace of those who love you.

I’ll never know where you were going or who was waiting for you. But for a brief moment, our lives intersected, and that matters. Maybe love isn’t just in the grand gestures, but in the quiet mercies we offer each other in passing, when no one else is looking.