This flight was supposed to be my victory lap. Not a celebration, exactly—I didn’t have the energy for champagne corks—but a quiet return to the land of the living. I was going home.
Around me, the terminal buzzed with the frantic energy of delayed gratification. Suitcases rolled like thunder over the tiled floor; announcements dissolved into static; toddlers shrieked with the unique, piercing frequency of the overtired. I sat near the window, trying to make myself invisible. My gray oversized hoodie swallowed my frame, hiding the ports, the scars, and the sharp angles of a body that had consumed itself to survive.
“Attention passengers of Flight 492,” the gate agent’s voice crackled, sounding exhausted. “We are now beginning pre-boarding for passengers needing special assistance and those with medical priority.”
That was me. The words felt heavy, a label I still struggled to wear.
I stood up. It wasn’t a fluid motion. It was a negotiation with gravity. My knees trembled, not from fear, but from a bone-deep fatigue that sleep couldn’t touch. I gripped the strap of my backpack, my knuckles white, and shuffled toward the lane.
I was three feet from the scanner when the air shifted.
A blur of expensive neon lycra cut across my vision. A rolling carry-on clipped my shin, sending a jolt of pain up my leg that made me gasp.
“Move, Jason! Seriously, move!”
