“Do you want some water?” he asked softly, as if the question might dissolve me.
I shook my head. My throat was too dry for anything kind.
The plane moved forward, and I closed my eyes, pressing my fingers into my lap to stay grounded. The roar of the engines rose around us, and with it, the pressure building inside my chest.
For days, I had been waking with his name in my throat. But this moment — pressurized air, belts clicking shut, my breath refusing to come — it felt like the exact second grief stopped pretending.
Then the intercom came alive.
“Good morning, folks. This is your captain speaking.
We’ll be flying at 30,000 feet today. The skies look smooth all the way to our destination. Thank you for choosing to fly with us.”
And just like that, everything inside me stilled.
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