The terminal smelled like coffee, disinfectant, and impatience.
That was the first thing I noticed as we stood near the security checkpoint at Hartsfield–Jackson, watching people rush past us with rolling suitcases and half-finished drinks. The fluorescent lights overhead were too bright, flattening everything into harsh clarity. A TV mounted near the ceiling murmured about traffic on I-85 and a storm
system moving east, the volume just low enough to fade into background noise.
It should have been ordinary.
Just another Thursday night. Just another business trip.
I was exhausted in the quiet, dangerous way you don’t notice until it’s already taken root in your bones. The kind of tired that doesn’t come from lack of sleep but from holding everything together for too long without ever being asked how you’re doing.
