Once I was at Wendy’s with my friend when we saw a stray cat out prowling the perimeter of the parking lot at night. She lured it over, captured it, and we took it to a vet to check for a microchip. A week of “lost cat” posts on Facebook later, we discovered the location of its home: a place right next door to the Wendy’s, where its family and owner lived. “I wouldn’t have done this,” I told her that first night, as we anxiously drove a strange cat on the highway to the 24-hour vet in the dark, “but I love that you did.”

My old friend Howard makes friends at every fast food place he visits, and ends up casually stepping behind the counter to fill his fountain drink or pour himself some coffee. He knows every kitchen employee’s name, and asks after those who’ve been off duty. He’ll scan a McDonald’s for ways he can help out: a table that needs to be cleaned, a tray that should be put away. Most food service workers love him, although there are a few places he doesn’t go into anymore. He once visited a local Chinese place with new menus that he’d printed up and laminated on his own initiative in hand; the menus were never used. After that, he would find himself in sudden screaming arguments with the manager. “I wouldn’t have done that,” I told him as we walked past that place, “but I love that you did.”

I met someone whose life’s mission is to collect the helium from every balloon that crosses their path. “We’re running out of it,” I was told. It ends up safely stockpiled in secondhand canisters in a basement, awaiting the day when it’ll slowly be rationed out, brightening the heliumless future we’re facing. In a decade, having balloons that float might be like having a pet dodo or a Model T Ford, but for now, I watch her proactively approach a children’s birthday party in the park and ask if they’re planning on taking home all the decorations. “I don’t think I’d do that,” I say, observing, “but I love that you would.”

I used to know someone who said “I love you” to almost every person he met. It would slip out like a prayer, like an invocation, like an urgent request, when walking away from someone, and put people in an awkward position as they figured out how to respond. “Too soon,” an older acquaintance once candidly replied. There were a lot of awkward “byes” (and even more awkward “what did you say?“s.) A few people, all women, smiled and said it back like a parent. “I wouldn’t do that,” I said, distressed, (unspoken: “but I love that you do,”) whenever I heard “I love you” aimed towards me.

I have a relative who spends hours a day watering dozens of plants in her house at precise intervals from sunrise to sunset. It’s grounding to have a routine that’s about something other than oneself, and it’s a way to reconnect with nature in the city. Nevertheless, despite her best efforts, very rarely, a plant will die, and she’ll spend a few moments still and silent at its planter on a daily basis before another eventually takes its place in the rotation. “I couldn’t see myself doing that,” I nod, “but I love that she does.”