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Before every flight, I choke down a chalky, hot pink Benadryl pill.

Once on the plane, my routine is simple: grab the window seat, fold myself into the most comfortable position I can manage in the cramped airplane and sleep. 

This habit started with the never-ending 16 hours of pure hell I suffered through every summer on my way to Shanghai in elementary and middle school. The smell of a plane reminds me of endless hours trying to calm a rumbling stomach–which usually ended in disaster. 

My mom thinks it’s confirmation bias. 

And perhaps it is. But at least I can proudly profess I haven’t puked on a plane since 5th grade. Instead I subject myself to sleep. 

Now, in this state of half dead, I occasionally scroll through the goldmine of entertainment on the tiny screen in front of me. I lethargically click on my favorite rom-coms, recent blockbusters and shows I don’t believe anyone has ever heard of before. 

Last spring, during my flight to Greece, I watched “50 First Dates” for the second time — soundless because I don’t like Delta earbuds. In between bouts of sheer exhaustion, I watched Adam Sandler charm an amnesiac Drew Berrymore for the tenth time. I found myself once again chuckling at the brilliant walrus-projectile-vomiting scene, holding back tears at Henry and Lucy’s wedding and pondering upon the ways this movie could only have been made in 2004. 

Often, when I’m tired of sleeping or the sting from the screen becomes unbearable, my gaze wanders to the people around me. 

People-watching in a plane is unlike any other place. In an airport, the constant mill of people means a snippet of conversation here, a precursory glance there. Afterall, the beauty of people watching is building elaborate stories for people you see for a maximum of 10 minutes — like the pensive guy in the Starbucks line in front of you. 

But in a plane, you’re blessed (or stuck) with your travel buddy and half a dozen strangers. Building a story for them becomes more complicated — there are more pieces to the puzzle. The parents fussing over a toddler in front of you. Are they happy? Going on vacation? Visiting family? 

My favorite clue is the movie that I watch over their shoulder. 

A guy watching “Ocean’s Eleven.” I picture him instead as the mastermind behind some elaborate casino scheme, watching the movie for notes and inspiration rather than entertainment.   

Or the siblings (so I assume) simultaneously watching different episodes of “Friends.” A family favorite? I imagine them flopped on the couch, arguing over Rachel and Joey’s potential relationship. 

Or the mom, watching “The Talented Mr. Ripley.” Fascinated by murder? Does she listen to true crime audiobooks before bed, like my friend from home? 

For the people behind me, they see a lump, leaned against the window, overly invested in the film in front of her. To them, perhaps I’m simply a cliche. A teenage girl watching a rom com. Or maybe they paint an illustrious life for me, one full of walruses and dramatic accidents. Or they don’t wonder about me — after all, I’m asleep for most of the flight anyways.