I had to stop traveling alone because I missed so many planes.

Host: The terminal lights hummed in a pale neon haze, flickering against the long rows of plastic chairs and glassy reflections. The hour was somewhere between midnight and memory — that strange stillness when airports become dreams, not destinations. Announcements echoed through the air, their voices robotic, yet somehow tired.

Host: Jack sat at the edge of a gate, a coffee cup gone cold in his hand, his eyes tracing the planes that slid across the rain-wet runway like ghosts of purpose. Jeeny stood by the window, her hair falling loose, her scarf twisted carelessly around her neck. The loudspeaker called a flight to Rome, but neither moved.

Jeeny: “You ever notice how airports are full of stories, Jack? Like floating confessions waiting for someone to listen.”

Jack: “Stories, huh? I see delays, overpriced coffee, and people pretending not to hate each other.”

Host: He spoke with that familiar dryness, the kind that made his words cut, but not bleed.

Jeeny: “Iyanla Vanzant once said, ‘I had to stop traveling alone because I missed so many planes. When somebody runs up to you in the airport and begins to tell you their life story, you can't say, “Excuse me, boo,” as they’re weeping on your bosom.’”

Jack: “That’s… oddly specific.”

Jeeny: “It’s human. She’s saying that when your heart’s open, life interrupts you. And sometimes, that’s the whole point.”

Jack: “Or maybe it’s just bad time management.”

Jeeny: “You’d call compassion a scheduling error?”

Jack: “When it costs you your flight — absolutely.”

Host: The PA system crackled, announcing another delay, and a soft groan rippled through the crowd. The sound mixed with the faint hum of a vacuum cleaner, the distant rolling of a suitcase wheel, and a baby’s quiet cry — the music of a waiting world.

Jeeny: “Don’t you ever feel the urge to stop, Jack? To just… let someone’s story break your rhythm?”

Jack: “I’ve learned the hard way that people’s stories don’t end when your plane boards. They cling. They drain. Everyone’s looking for someone to fix their chaos.”

Jeeny: “Maybe they’re just looking to be seen.”

Jack: “Seen? There are eight billion people on this planet. You try seeing all of them and you’ll end up blind.”

Host: His words carried the weight of someone who had once cared too much — and paid for it.

Jeeny: “That’s not blindness, Jack. That’s humanity. Vanzant’s quote isn’t about missing planes. It’s about how easily we sacrifice connection for efficiency.”

Jack: “Efficiency keeps the world running. If everyone stopped to console strangers, the economy would collapse before lunchtime.”

Jeeny: “And yet, somehow, it’s still collapsing even while we rush past each other.”

Host: Jeeny turned, her eyes bright, catching the reflection of departure lights. Jack looked away, pretending to study his boarding pass, though his fingers were motionless.

Jack: “You think missing a plane for someone’s tears is noble?”

Jeeny: “Not noble. Necessary. We live in a world obsessed with arrival, but what about presence? What about the souls we brush past while running toward the next gate?”

Jack: “Presence doesn’t get you to your destination.”

Jeeny: “Maybe it is the destination.”

Host: The tension between them was like the low hum of an engine, constant and alive. Outside, a plane roared down the runway, its lights vanishing into the fog — a symbol, perhaps, of everything Jack believed in: progress, precision, control.

Jack: “You know what happens when you let people slow you down, Jeeny? You start missing things. Meetings. Opportunities. Momentum.”

Jeeny: “And what happens when you never let them? You start missing yourself.”

Host: The words landed like a quiet impact, barely audible, but deep enough to leave a mark.

Jack: “You talk like the world can run on empathy. But empathy doesn’t build skyscrapers.”

Jeeny: “No. But it stops us from building prisons inside ourselves.”

Host: For a moment, neither spoke. A janitor passed, pushing his cart slowly, the wheels squeaking like an old song. The airport lights dimmed for a second, then brightened again.

Jeeny: “Do you remember that story of the old woman at JFK who used to hug travelers for free?”

Jack: “The ‘Free Hugs Grandma’? Yeah. She was on the news once.”

Jeeny: “She said she’d started because she saw too many people crying alone. Twenty years later, she’d hugged over half a million travelers. No planes missed, no careers ruined. Just… warmth.”

Jack: “And what did she get for it?”

Jeeny: “Peace.”

Jack: “Peace doesn’t pay for airfare.”

Jeeny: “You keep thinking everything has to be bought, Jack. Some things are earned in silence.”

Host: The airport was quieter now. A few travelers slept curled in their seats, headphones still glowing. A child laughed in the distance, chasing the reflection of an escalator light.

Jack: “I used to talk to strangers. You know that?”

Jeeny: “You?”

Jack: “Yeah. Back when I thought listening made a difference. Once, on a layover in Istanbul, a man told me he’d lost his daughter in a bombing. I sat with him for hours. Missed my flight. The next day, he was gone. I never even learned his name.”

Jeeny: “But you remember him.”

Jack: “That’s the problem.”

Jeeny: “No, Jack. That’s the gift.”

Host: Jack’s hand tightened around his cup, the paper crumpling slightly. The light above them flickered, as if even the electricity hesitated.

Jack: “It’s easier not to care.”

Jeeny: “Easier, yes. But not better.”

Jack: “You’d miss every plane in your life if you stopped for every story.”

Jeeny: “Then maybe some flights aren’t worth catching.”

Host: The speaker above them buzzed again — “Final boarding call for Flight 297.” The moment hovered, heavy, like a choice.

Jack: “That’s me.”

Jeeny: “Then go. But tell me, Jack — if your plane takes you further from the world, are you sure it’s flying the right direction?”

Host: Her voice was soft, but the question hung in the air like the lingering note of a violin.

Jack: “You make it sound like love and distraction are the same thing.”

Jeeny: “Maybe they are. Love distracts us from ourselves — and maybe that’s salvation.”

Host: Jack looked toward the gate, then back at Jeeny. His eyes, once clear with purpose, now carried the haze of uncertainty.

Jack: “You really think missing planes for people’s stories means you’re living right?”

Jeeny: “No. But I think catching every plane and missing every heart means you’re not.”

Host: The announcer’s voice repeated the final boarding call, fading into the static. Jack stood, paused, then slowly sat back down.

Jack: “Guess I’ll wait for the next one.”

Jeeny: “You just caught the one that mattered.”

Host: A small smile crept across his face, the kind that carried both defeat and peace. The rain outside had softened to a mist, and a faint sunrise began to touch the runway, turning the silver puddles to gold.

Host: Around them, the world continued to move — planes, luggage, faces, stories — but for that single moment, two travelers sat still, their hearts grounded, while everything else took flight.