Missed connections
There’s a kind of magic in the air at airports, something just shy of delusion but just close enough to hope; where goodbyes feel cinematic and hellos feel momentous
There’s something undeniably romantic about airports. Maybe it’s the hum of anticipation in the air, the quiet buzz of possibility. Strangers cross paths with strangers, everyone coming or going, arriving or escaping. For a few suspended hours, time bends a little, and reality, for once, lets you daydream. Airports are transitional by nature, but in that in-between, not-here-not-there space, everything suddenly feels possible.
Which is ironic, really, because travel, at least for me, is rarely glamorous. It’s security queues that move at a glacial pace, sandwiches that cost more than my Uber here, and the creeping dread that I’ve definitely forgotten something vital (probably my charger). And yet, every time, I’m there in the terminal mirror, reapplying lip balm like I’m about to run into my ex or someone that I can, in no time, make my ex. I style my outfit like I might get papped at the Pret queue. I pray my messy bun reads more chicly dishevelled than didn’t sleep and cried on the Piccadilly Line.
But why? Who exactly am I trying to impress?
It’s not like I put this much effort into my daily commute. The tube is a lawless place where eye contact is an act of aggression and the scent of someone’s forgotten McDonald’s lingers like heartbreak. No one is finding love on the Victoria Line. But airports? Airports are different. There’s an unspoken allure in the sheer number of people passing through, each carrying stories, secrets, destinations. It feels cinematic, like at any moment, I might lock eyes across Gate 32 with someone who changes everything. Or at the very least, someone who makes a funny comment about the incomprehensible boarding zones.
Blame the rom-coms. They’ve conditioned us to believe in last-minute dashes through terminals, confessions at departure gates, love letters exchanged over plastic meal trays. We all want our own film moment, a missed connection that becomes the beginning of something. We’re secretly hoping our seatmate will be devastatingly handsome, or at least mildly interesting, and that a throwaway joke about turbulence will spiral into a full-blown situationship.
Once, I thought it was happening to me. I was flying to France a few summers ago and found myself next to a man who was, objectively, fit. He was charming, well-travelled, laughed at my nervous babble about flying. We swapped travel tips, favourite beach towns, and existential fears. When the plane touched down, he asked for my number. I gave it to him, heart pounding, already reciting the opening line of our ‘how we met’ speech in my head. He never texted.
And yet, I still believe. I still romanticise. Every time I roll my suitcase through those sliding doors, I carry with me the hope, however irrational, that something is waiting on the other side of security. Someone, even.
So I’ll keep dressing up. I’ll keep pretending I’m the lead in some indie airport romance. I’ll keep looking up from my book in the departure lounge, just in case. Because who knows? Maybe next time, the story won’t end at baggage claim.
xoxo
this makes me feel things i didnt know i had. what is it with our longing and yearning at airport? i feel that it's so collectively felt. is it the goodbye, the excitement of new journey, the temporary heartfelt exchange between us and strangers we might never see again? there's something profound about it and yet so fleeting. lovely piece<3