I nod.
We lock up the house. The click of the deadbolt sounds final. It feels like we’re stepping off a cliff. This house had been our sanctuary for the last thirteen months. We were safe here. Away from the world. Shielded. Shrouded in our own grief. But now, we have decided to go out—expose ourselves to experiences.
The drive is quiet.
After a few minutes, Aditi turns to me.
‘I still don’t get it,’ she says.
I keep looking out the window. ‘Get what?’
‘Why you changed your mind. About coming. You were so against it.’
A long moment passes.
‘Just,’ I say, finally.
She waits for more, but I offer nothing else.
I remember another drive like this. Different Uber, same terminal. I had been nervous and on edge then too. I was unsure, scared, happy. Happiness, such a distant dream? How fragile is happiness? One moment and it’s gone. Grief is permanent. It seeps down into your bones and becomes you. Happy is what you can be, but sad is who you are. Aditi is beside me now, scrolling aimlessly on her phone, like she always is. Her thumb moves up, up, up, a pointless motion. I don’t see why people lambast social media. It’s great to run away from feelings. Her knee bounces lightly against her handbag. A tiny, rhythmic earthquake of anxiety. When we reach the airport, the driver helps us with the bags. Then we’re standing on the pavement in front of the sliding glass doors of Terminal 3.
I don’t move. My feet feel bolted to the concrete. So arehers.
‘It’s a stupid, automatic door,’ I tell her.
‘Just a sheet of glass,’ she tells me.
‘We’ve walked through it a dozen times before,’ I tell her.
‘Not me,’ she says. ‘I have only taken two flights before.’
‘Ready?’ I ask her.
‘No,’ she replies.
‘Me neither,’ I say. ‘Let’s get it over with.’
I take a breath and step forward. We both do. The door whooshes open. The airport breathes us in. Inside, the industrial-strength wind curtain slaps us with cold air. The terminal is chaos. No matter how big they build them, eventually they are all small. People who are early are sprawled on the ground, people who are late are running to theircounters. I feel nothing. I feel everything. It’s hard to tell the difference. The check-in line is short.
We check in.
At security, the real test begins. This is where we can still turn back. What would we say at the immigration? Why are two unrelated people going on a trip? Not friends, just two people bonded in grief. Just two people going on a trip the love of their lives wanted them to go on. Or just two people using that as a pretext to leave their grief behind? To wash it over. My bag slides through the X-ray machine. No one asks anything at the immigration. We walk towards our gate. And just before Gate 23, the memories crash over me.
And that’s when I see her.
Not really. But sort of. A ghost image superimposed over the bustling crowd. Megha, walking ahead of me in her old, faded blue jeans and that stupid yellow backpack she loved so much, carrying that stupid mug and the stupid photo frame. She’s stopping to tie her shoelaces, causing a minor traffic jam of trolleys. She’s turning around, laughing.
She’s not here.
The thought hits with the force of a physical blow. She’s not anywhere.
Aditi places her hand lightly on my back. It’s not a hug. Not comfort, not really. It’s just... contact. As if to say I know where you are. Come back.
She’s the only one who knows where I am.
‘Thanks,’ I mumble, not looking at her.
We find our gate. Aditi immediately opens her Kindle. I just stare at the departures board, watching the city names flip over, one after another.
