Me too, I whisper to myself.
Good trip. As if this is just a work conference. As if I’m not dragging the remains of my marriage behind me in a carry-on. I walk toward security, toward Gate 26. JFK. Boarding on time. 9:30 p.m. On time.
I sit in the closest seat to the tarmac I can find. If I’m close enough to the runway, maybe I’ll feel closer to escape. Closer to leaving all of this behind. The planes outside taxi in neat, obedient lines.
I stare at my phone. His text message sits there.
Miss you already.
He sent it the moment I got into the car. Was that a lie? Did he really miss me? Or was she on her way when he typed it? Something coils tight inside me. I must’ve been staring at those three words for thirty minutes because suddenly I hear it “Now boarding Zone 4.”
My zone. It’s already 9:30pm. Time keeps moving whether I fall apart or not. I board and find my seat.
28A.
Twenty-eight.
The day we said I do.
The day we promised forever.
The day he lied.
I sit down. “Ehem. Miss? You’re in my seat.” I blink and look down. 28B. Of course. I’m in the wrong seat. Like I don’t want to accept where I’m actually supposed to be. Like I didn’t want to accept what I saw tonight.
“I’m sorry,” I mutter.
And I look up. He’s standing there, tall, broad-shouldered, white button-down with the sleeves rolled up just enough to show strong forearms. Navy trousers, effortless. The kind of man who looks like he belongs in first class.
Green eyes.
Sharp, clear, almost unfair. The kind of face that carries quiet confidence. Strong jaw. Controlled smile. A hint of something mischievous.
For a split second, I hear Clara’s voice in my head.
They’re all the same.
I look at him with mild annoyance, like he personally betrayed me. He doesn’t flinch. He just smiles. Soft. Easy.
“I mean,” he says calmly, “we can switch. It’s no problem.”
And somehow, that makes it worse. Because he’s kind and I’m not ready for kind. I moved back to my assigned seat. 28A.The one printed clearly on my boarding pass. The one I was supposed to be in from the start. I had slipped into the wrong one earlier.
28B. Close, but not mine. For a moment I almost stayed there. Almost let someone else adjust. But I didn’t stay. I stood up. Apologized. Moved back to the seat with my name on it.
28A.
Serafina Vale.
Vale.
His last name.
The one I chose. The one I signed onto documents and Christmas cards and medical forms like it was permanent. I went back to where I was supposed to be. I’ve always been good at that. Shifting. Adjusting. Making myself smaller so things feel balanced again.
In my marriage, I did the same. After every disagreement, every crack, every almost-ending, I realigned myself. Smoothed it over. Slid back into place. Somewhere over the country, long after the cabin lights dim, I realize the man next to me hasn’t tried to sleep. Neither have I.
He’s reading something on his phone, elbow resting on the armrest between us. Calm. Annoyingly calm. Like red-eye flights and cramped seats don’t exist in his world. I shift slightly in my seat, adjusting my coat as a makeshift blanket. My eyes flick toward the window, then back to my phone.
