ETHAN
The thing about grief?It doesn’t wait until someone dies. It creeps in way before that. The first time they forget your birthday. Or miss a call. Or take too long to text back. It’s in the way their laugh gets weaker. That’s when it really starts. By the time the end comes, it’s just an echo.
I hadn’t cried since the night she passed. I didn’t even have the time. Between the funeral arrangements, the flower orders, and picking between a dark gray or navy casket liner (like it mattered), I barely had time to breathe and come to an understanding of what just happened. I just kept moving. Didn’t stop long enough to let it hit. At least not until now. I guess flying over there makes everythingreal.
I drop into an empty seat near the gate, and the cold from it goes through my jeans. The airport hums, that low and constant buzz of wheels, chatter, and boarding calls, all of it just blurs together. Someone’s kid is cryingthree gates down. I hear a coffee machine hissing somewhere behind me, as my phone buzzes.
Hannah
Her face fills the screen. Messy bun, tired eyes, sunlight spilling in through the kitchen window behind her. The one over the sink with the crooked blind that she has told me a thousand times to fix. God, she’s beautiful. “Hey,” I say, forcing a smile I hope looks real. Although I know I’m not fooling anyone.
“There he is, you left so early I couldn’t even say a proper goodbye,” she teases, voice soft. “Boarding soon?”
“I know, sorry. Didn’t want to wake you all up. They just called the armed forces,” I say as I glance at the crowd. Businessmen with Bluetooths, families wrangling strollers, the usual shuffle. She flips the camera. The girls are on the couch, a blanket fortress around them. “Say bye to Daddy!”
“Bye, Daddy! Love you!” two little voices yell in perfect chaos. I grin like an idiot. “Love you too, girls. Be good for Mom, okay?” They nod, giggling, hair sticking up in every direction. Hannah flips the camera back. “Text me when you land.”
“I will. Love you.”
“Love you more.” The screen goes dark. Just my reflection staring back at my tired eyes. I shove the phone into my pocket as I stand and stretch. My back pops. Coffee. I need coffee.
At the stand, I order a large black and, on impulse, grab a bag of Sour Patch Kids. Comfort candy. Alwayshas been, ever since high school. Those bus rides with cracked lips and sugar-dusted fingers were the best. It’s funny how certain habits outlive entire versions of us. No matter how much time has passed.
Back at the gate, they’re already boarding my group. I toss the candy in my backpack and fall into line. The woman ahead of me smells like lavender and rain. It’s a weird combination if you think about it. The guy behind me is muttering about overhead bins. I take a slow sip of the coffee, too hot, too bitter. It’s a good distraction.
The flight’ssmoother than I expected. We take off in the rain, the heavy, drumming kind that turns everything outside the window into a smear of silver. The engines roar, the nose tilts up, and the world drops away. Then, we break through. The clouds crack open, and the light pours in. It’s bright, the kind that makes you squint even behind sunglasses. It’s always strange, that shift. One minute, you’re swallowed by weather; the next, you’re above it, flying in perfect calm while the storm keeps raging somewhere below.
I spend most of it with my AirPods in, bouncing between emails and notes for the upcoming site visit. Wi-Fi cuts in and out, but I keep typing like it matters, like keeping busy might trick my brain into thinking I’m okay.
A few routine responses:
Got it, thanks.
Will review when I land.
Looks good, just make sure the contractor double-checks the drainage specs.
The usual work language is efficient, bloodless, and safe. Everyone told me to take a few weeks off, but I can’t allow myself to do that. I’ll drown. I’ll be taking a few days once I’m in Tacoon, but that’s it.
I tweak a few documents and stare at the same spreadsheet for too long. Sip coffee until it’s cold and burnt-tasting, the kind that sticks to the back of your throat. The guy next to me is asleep, head back, mouth open. Across the aisle, a woman flips through a paperback, her thumb tapping rhythmically at the corner of each page.
At some point, I flag down the flight attendant. “Jack and Ginger, please.” She smiles politely, pours with practiced ease. I’ll drink just one. Just enough to take the edge off. The nerves, the sadness, everything in between, I don’t want to name. It sits warm in my chest as I stare out the window at nothing, at the faint line of the horizon, the endless sky, and wonder why.
The ice clinks. The seatbelt sign dings. Someone laughs two rows up. I close my laptop, lean my head back, and let the hum of the engines fill the space where my thoughts should be.
The plane drops easily, a soft glide through a sheet of low clouds. No turbulence, no bounce, just a smoothsurrender to gravity. Wheels kiss the runway, a muffled thud, then that long, rising whine of reverse thrust. Out the window, Tacoon looks the same as ever. Flat, familiar, quiet in a way that gets under your skin. The fields stretch out, brown and bare this time of year. The kind of landscape that makes you remember being seventeen, driving nowhere with the windows down. My stomach tightens anyway. It always does, right before the door opens. That old, dumb reflex, like bracing for something you can’t quite name.
We taxi for what feels like forever. Rows of hangars slide past, a couple of maintenance trucks, the faded tail of some regional airline parked like it’s given up. I gather my things: laptop, phone, half-empty coffee cup, and the crinkled bag of Sour Patch Kids from earlier. The flight attendant smiles and says, “Welcome home,” without realizing it hits the wrong note.
In the arrivals terminal, the air smells like floor polish and too many cinnamon pretzels. The carpet pattern hasn’t changed in decades, that ugly blue swirl I used to trace with my shoes as a kid.
I check the board for Leo’s flight. It’s a little delayed, as usual. Ten, maybe fifteen minutes behind. I reach for my phone to text Hannah to let her know I landed.
And I freeze.
For a second, I don’t breathe. The noise of the terminal doesn’t just fade; it drops away completely. Just the thud of my heart, the echo of footsteps, and that sudden, impossible familiarity that punches through years like glass.
Liv.
