My partner and I say, unjokingly, that if it weren’t for dating apps we never would have met. We’re different in many ways, with divergent backgrounds, interests, musical tastes and social-media diets. While our differences meant we needed help getting together, staying together has been easy – perhaps because we have something that researchers have deemed valuable in relationships: a ‘shared reality’.

Psychology researchers define a shared reality as the perception that you share with another person many of the same feelings, attitudes and beliefs about the world. If, for example, you and a partner discuss a horror movie you’ve watched together, and it turns out that you both found particular parts scary and other bits a little silly, you’d feel a sense of shared reality about this movie. It’s the impression that the other person is seeing what you’re seeing and that you’re processing it in a similar way. This can apply to all sorts of shared experiences.

Previous research has shown that having a shared reality is related to greater relationship satisfaction and commitment. Most recently, researchers found that romantic partners who experienced a higher sense of a shared reality tended to report a greater sense of meaning in life. They also reported feeling less uncertainty when faced with stressful life and world events.

For me, it’s reassuring to have someone whose experience of the world overlaps with mine – especially in moments when I doubt my own reading of a situation. When someone’s humour at a party doesn’t sit right with me but rouses rounds of laughter, that incongruence and self-doubt can feel uncomfortable. When my partner, unprompted, later admits he didn’t enjoy it either, we both sigh in relief and talk about why. It’s a grounding process, one that confirms, time after time, that neither of us is alone in seeing things the way we do.

When I was an adolescent, time spent with my first girlfriend – a title very quickly rescinded – was as exhilarating as it was onerous. The cause of the former was straightforward, but that of the latter was specific to that juncture in my life: I felt that a beat of dead air was a solemn mark against me, and every moment must be filled with witty and memorable words. Before our meetings, I would tabulate, sometimes physically putting to paper, all the interesting, intriguing, titillating things I could mention. I treated hanging out like a state examination. You can imagine why she lunged at the first opportunity to become an ex.

But we remained – and remain – close friends, and some time after our ill-starred relationship ended, something indelible happened: we had our first real silence. Late in a balmy summer night, conversation extinguished itself and, for some reason, nothing else was said. I’ve had a lot of beautiful silences since then, but it remains the most poignant.

I was reminded of this experience by Emil Cioran, the brooding and sardonic Romanian French philosopher, who was actually capable of stringing together witty and memorable words. ‘True contact between beings,’ he wrote, ‘is established only by mute presence, by apparent non-communication, by that mysterious and wordless exchange which resembles inward prayer.’

Silences between people, of course, have all sorts of meanings, and Cioran is far from the only philosopher to write about silence. But here he incomparably evokes the strange intimacy that inheres in the best kinds of silence. Perhaps the next time you are fortunate enough to inhabit this kind of silence with someone important to you, you’ll think of ‘true contact’.

Lately, I’ve been trying to be a better listener by using Carl Rogers’s technique of ‘unconditional positive regard’ (UPR), an idea I learned about on a recent psychology course. UPR refers to nonjudgmental acceptance of, and care for, a person – regardless of whether you agree with the things they say, think and do. It doesn’t suggest that you ignore or permit harmful behaviour, only that an individual should not have conditions they need to meet for them to be worthy of warmth and support.

When I first heard about UPR, it struck me that one reason it might be so powerful is that we very rarely come across this nonjudgmental approach in our daily lives. From socialising to contributing in meetings, it can often feel as though we’re being assessed in various ways. I thought about how comforting it is when you know you’re being held in a positive regard that isn’t going to waver, even if you have an off day or make an error – and whether this was something I could more intentionally foster for the people around me.

In practice, this has meant resisting the urge to jump in with advice, which I’ve noticed is often infused with judgment, and attempting to listen without necessarily looking for a solution. It’s revealed more of my own biases and thought patterns – such as the way I sometimes default to ‘I would/wouldn’t have done X’, rather than understanding where the other person is coming from. It’s meant asking more questions and being increasingly mindful of my nonverbal communication, such as avoiding facial expressions that communicate surprise or disagreement. Granted, I fail every day to uphold the aims of UPR, but the process of attempting it has increased my capacity for compassion – and a happy side-effect is that I seem to judge myself a little less now, too.