Linda flipped through the passport slowly, her movements deliberate, almost theatrical. She examined the photo, then looked up at Naomi again, her gaze sharpening.
“This doesn’t look like you,” she said.
Naomi blinked once, more out of habit than confusion. “It’s from a few years ago,” she replied calmly. “It’s still valid.”
Linda tilted her head slightly, as though considering that explanation, though her expression suggested she had already made up her mind.
“And you’re flying first class?” she added, the question less about logistics and more about implication.
Naomi felt the familiar tightening in her chest, the quiet recognition of where this was heading. She could have defused it, perhaps, with a joke or a softer tone, but something in her—something sharpened by weeks of observation and restraint—refused to bend.
“Yes,” she said simply.
Linda let out a short, humorless laugh, shaking her head as though amused by something only she understood.
“First class with that sweatshirt,” she muttered, just loud enough for those nearby to hear. “Sure you are, sweetheart.”
The word hung in the air, heavy with condescension.
A few passengers shifted uncomfortably, their attention drawn despite themselves. Naomi remained still, her expression unchanged, though beneath the surface, something had begun to shift—not anger, not yet, but a kind of clarity, the moment when a situation stops being ambiguous and reveals itself for exactly what it is.
