I turn to look at the arrivals board. A cascading change of graphics announces the delays. I pick up my phone and send a text to Aman, reminding him that I love him, that I miss him, and it’s rude that he’s not barging into the cockpit and demanding that the plane be landed, no matter the weather.
When I look up, he’s smiling at me.
‘What?’
‘You were smiling while texting someone who won’t get that text,’ he says.
I roll my eyes. ‘But imagine switching on the phone and getting so many? What could be better?’
‘If I land and get so many texts, it would give me instant anxiety that something’s gone wrong.’
I smile at his naivety, but then again, what does he know about what’s happened.
‘Whatever could have gone wrong has already gone wrong,’ I say.
‘As in?’
Before I can brush it away, he’s looking around at the murmur. Everyone’s staring at the board again. The flight’sdelayed by another thirty. He slumps back into his chair, and now his eyes are back at me.
‘What has gone wrong?’ he says.
‘Nothing?’
‘Didn’t you just say that something has?’
I want to nip this in the bud, but his eyes are focused on me. It’s the first time I notice them. These are what I imagine a therapist’s eyes might look like—deep, inviting, tricking you into spilling all that’s inside of you. I don’t want to say anything, but the words seem to form into sentences on their own and leave my mouth.
‘My parents don’t like Aman,’ I tell this random stranger. ‘I left my house this morning.’
‘Left as in?’
‘Left as in, I won’t be going back. I wrote them a letter.’
Growing up, eloping and starting a new life somewhere sounded romantic, heroic even, freeing. But it feels like being shackled to a boulder, every step heavier than the last.I wrote them a letter?Even now, it seems almost comical. Running away from the house you grew up in, leaving the parents that raised you, because you found a guy cute and kind? It makes no sense and yet it was the only thing to do.
He looks at me for a bit as if trying to figure out if he should continue this conversation. I want him to. I can’t be in my head for now. I think he knows because he nods and then asks, ‘Why?’
‘He’s... older,’ I say. And then add what is a truth about him but somehow doesn’t feel true, ‘... and divorced.’
‘How old are you?’
‘Twenty-two.’
‘And him?’
‘Thirty.’
‘That’s not too much. I thought you would say forty.’
‘I wish my parents understood.’
‘When did he get divorced?’
‘Five years ago. He was married for just a year. And yet...’
He shakes his head. ‘You might bring them the most perfect person to ever exist, but if your parents don’t want you to find love on your own, they will always find something to point out.’
Now, I get it.
