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If you’d told me a month ago I’d be sprinting through campus with a duffel bag slamming my hip, I would’ve laughed in your face.

If you’d told me Fork Guy would be right behind me, waving what looked suspiciously like a laminated boarding pass and a baggie of healing crystals, I would’ve called campus security.

But here the fuck we are.

By the time we reach the bus stop, I’m sweating through my shirt. Fork Guy’s jogging behind me, neck pillow covered in tiny plastic forks, looking like he got lost on his way to a Spirit Airlines promo shoot.

“Where ya going?” he pants, nearly tripping over his own feet and sprawling on the pavement. “You look like you failed a final and decided to join a cult.”

I lean against the shelter, catching my breath.

There’s no way to say this out loud without feeling like I’m in the pilot episode of a show that gets canceled after one season, but here goes.

“I’m going to see Camdyn. She’s playing in the World Series.

I need to—” I hesitate, because saying it out loud makes it real. “Make a grand gesture.”

Fork Guy’s eyes go wide, then narrow with determination.

“This is better than any soap opera. You making a grand gesture? Dude, you need backup. I’ve got emergency flight miles.

My parents gave them to me in case I needed to flee the country or, you know, attend a family funeral. This is basically both.”

I stare at him, weighing my options. If I say yes, there’s a one hundred percent chance something will go wrong. If I say no, he’ll probably follow me anyway. Why am I letting him come? Panic? Sleep deprivation? Do I actually want his brand of chaos right now?

Before I can answer, he’s already pulling up his airline app. “Let’s go, Baseball Boy! Love doesn’t wait, and neither do flash sales.”

Okay, well. This should be… interesting.

The airport is a fluorescent-lit hellscape of rolling bags and cranky toddlers.

Fork Guy insists on taking the lead, which is a mistake even my sleep-deprived brain can see coming.

He barrels toward security, neck pillow bobbing, duffel bag slung crosswise like he’s about to storm the beach at Normandy.

He gets stopped at security immediately, his fork-covered neck pillow setting off the metal detector in a flurry of beeps. A TSA agent, built like a linebacker and with the patience of a saint who’s run out of miracles, gestures. “Sir, can you remove your…accessory?”

Fork Guy beams, unbothered. “It’s feng shui. For travel luck. Positive energy, open chakras—airport chi.”

The agent’s expression does not change. “Sir, do you have any liquids?”

Fork Guy, undeterred, solemnly produces a Capri Sun and hands it over like a sacred artifact. “For emergencies only.”

I’m already halfway through security when he calls out, “Hey, Baseball Boy! Tell them we’re on a mission of the heart!”

The agent glances at me, dead-eyed. “Is he with you?”

I think about all the choices I ever made, the dominoes that toppled to bring me to this exact moment, and sigh. “Unfortunately, yes.”

They scan Fork Guy’s bag three times. I watch as they pull out a tangle of healing crystals, a single tube sock, and what looks like a laminated photo of Emerald the gecko.

“For spiritual support,” Fork Guy explains, completely straight-faced.

The agent shakes his head and waves us through. “Don’t let him near the pilot,” he mutters.

At the gate, Fork Guy slides into the plastic chair next to me, Capri Sun in hand. “See? The universe wants us to win. Also, I got my Capri Sun back. You ever had one at thirty thousand feet? Tastes like freedom. Like childhood, but with less supervision and more existential dread.”

I let out a laugh, surprised at how much I needed it. My hands are still shaking. “You’re insane.”

He grins. “You’re just figuring that out now?”

I try to settle, but my knee’s bouncing and my mind’s spinning. What if Camdyn doesn’t want to see me? What if I distract her from the game? I press my palms together so hard my knuckles pop.

Fork Guy watches me for a second, then leans back and stares at the ceiling.

“You know, most people think they have more time. That’s the real problem.

They think there’s always another chance, another day to say the thing.

But then you wake up and it’s gone, and you have to live with the echo of what you didn’t do. ”

It’s so uncharacteristically deep, I almost ask if he’s okay. But he’s already back to fiddling with his airline app, humming the Jeopardy theme.

I try to picture what I’ll say if I actually get to Camdyn.

There’s a version where I blurt it all out—“I’m sorry, I was an dumb ass, please don’t let my idiocy ruin the best thing in my life.

” There’s a version where she laughs in my face.

Or throws something. Or worse: she’s just tired.

Tired of me, tired of the drama. I don’t even know how to start.

I wish I had a script. I wish I had a single clue what would actually fix this.

On the plane, Fork Guy takes the aisle seat.

He immediately starts talking to the stranger next to him, launching into a monologue about “the metaphysical implications of airport carpet patterns” (the stranger pretends to sleep, but Fork Guy is undeterred).

I close my eyes and try to plan. Step one: find Camdyn.

Step two: don’t make it weirder than it already is. Step three: say something that matters.

But Fork Guy’s already flagging down the flight attendant. “Excuse me, do you guys serve vegan ramen? No? Okay, what about just, like, a cup of hot water and some vibes?”

The attendant blinks. “We have pretzels.”

Fork Guy beams. “Perfect. Could I get two packs? For feng shui.”

I slide down in my seat, wishing for invisibility. I try to focus—how do you apologize for a screw-up you can’t even name out loud? How do you convince someone you’re worth a second chance when you’re not even sure you believe it?

Fork Guy offers me a tiny fork “for luck.”

I eye it—it honestly looks like a weapon. “Where did you get these?”

He shrugs. “Amazon.”

I pocket it because it’s easier than arguing. I feel the cheap plastic pressing into my palm. It’s oddly grounding.

Thirty minutes in, there’s a commotion in the aisle. I look up just in time to see Fork Guy demonstrating a yoga pose—warrior two, directly in the path of the drink cart.

“Sir, you need to remain seated,” the flight attendant says, not even hiding her exasperation.

He does not sit down. “But I’m aligning my chakras! My friend needs good energy! We’re on a romantic rescue mission!”

“Can you please not cause a scene?” I hiss, yanking him back down by his sleeve.

He shrugs, unbothered. “Chill, Baseball Boy. The universe loves chaos.”

The flight attendant gives us a look that could curdle milk. “We’re watching you, sir,” she says to Fork Guy. Then to me: “And you, keep your friend under control.”

I want to crawl under the seat. Instead, I stare out the window, watching the clouds dissolve into nothing. My stomach’s doing somersaults, but there’s a weird steadiness in knowing I’ve left safe ground behind.

Maybe that’s the point.

Maybe you have to risk looking like an idiot if you want anything real.

Fork Guy leans over, voice suddenly quieter. “You’ll figure out what to say when you see her. Or you’ll say the wrong thing and then the right thing. That’s how it works, man. People forgive more than you think, if you show up.”

I squeeze the tiny fork in my hand, trying to believe in luck, or fate, or at least the possibility of forgiveness.

“You’re overthinking, bro,” Fork Guy says, reading my face like it’s a grocery list. “Girls love this stuff. Trust me, I’ve watched a LOT of Hallmark movies. The grand gesture always works.”

I snort. “If she throws a drink in my face, I’m blaming you.”

He shrugs, unbothered. “That’s just drama. Means you care. Besides, worst case, you get a story. Best case, you get the girl. Either way, you already jumped.”

Fork Guy might be right.

I look out the window, watching the clouds disappear into nothing. My stomach’s flipping, but there’s a weird steadiness in knowing I’ve left safe ground behind. Maybe that’s the point. Maybe you have to risk looking like an idiot if you want anything real.

It’s somewhere between hour two and three when I get up to use the bathroom.

The airplane bathroom is roughly the size of a coffin with commitment issues and smells like lemon cleaner and existential dread, with a hint of “ocean breeze.”

I lock the door, try to turn around, and immediately bump my elbow on the wall. My knees are wedged against the diaper-changing shelf. There’s a mystery smudge on the mirror, and for one second, I consider writing a will on the back of my boarding pass.

Fork Guy is somewhere out there, probably convincing a flight attendant to let him realign the beverage cart for “maximum chi,” or explaining how turbulence is “the plane’s chakras shaking off bad vibes.

” I just need five minutes where nobody’s waving a lucky fork in my face or narrating my love life for the entire C group.

I unlock my phone, thumb hovering over Camdyn’s name. My heart’s pounding like the landing gear on a bumpy runway.

I type:

Heyyy

Delete. Too casual.

I’m sorry

Delete. Too pathetic.

Ik I’m the last person you want to hear from

Delete, delete, delete.

The turbulence kicks in, and I nearly drop my phone in the sink, which is, by the way, approximately the size of a hamster’s bathtub and currently dripping something that’s probably not water.

That’d be peak Jaxon: finally confess my feelings, immediately short-circuit my phone, die alone, funeral sponsored by United.

I try again:

Good luck in the World Series

You’re going to crush it

I stare at the blinking cursor. What if she doesn’t even read it? What if she blocks my number? What if Fork Guy is right and I need to be “bolder, bro, like a grand slam confession”?

Delete.

My reflection in the mirror looks skeptical. I try to smile at myself, but I just look like I’m about to puke or maybe cry. Or both. Honestly, I look like someone who’s about to ask the bathroom for relationship advice.

I try:

Is there a chance for us??

Delete.

Do you think we could ever try again?

Delete.

I’m sorry

Not just for messing up, but for not telling you how much you mean to me sooner

Delete.

Still too much. Too soon. Too everything.

There’s an ominous knock. “Sir?” a flight attendant’s voice says, tense in that way people get when they’re ready to snap and change careers. “We need you out here.”

I freeze, thumb hovering over SEND, but the message is a jumble of unsent apologies and accidental typos (“I loaf you” is not the vibe).

Another knock, louder. “Sir, your…friend is trying to organize an in-flight karaoke competition using the intercom. If you don’t come out and handle him, I will personally throw him out at thirty thousand feet. And you with him.”

I stuff my phone in my pocket, stare at my reflection in the warped mirror, and see someone who’s been awake for forty-eight hours, is trying to text his ex while trapped in a flying shoebox, and—oh, perfect—has a piece of toilet paper stuck to his shoe.

For a split second, I think about locking myself in here until we land, but knowing my luck, Fork Guy would probably crawl through the ceiling vent to offer me a pep talk and a Capri Sun.

So I open the door and step out, ready to face Fork Guy’s American Idol audition and my own impending emotional doom.

The flight attendant is standing there, arms crossed, murder in her eyes. “He’s your emotional support human, right?” she says. “Come get him before I press the eject button.”

Behind her, I catch a glimpse of Fork Guy, halfway through a passionate rendition of “I Will Survive” for a visibly alarmed toddler and at least one old lady who looks like she’s reconsidering her faith in aviation.

The beverage cart is somehow sideways. A man in 12B is filming, probably for the FAA.

Fork Guy has found the karaoke mic and is clutching it with the conviction of someone who believes this is his moment to go viral.

All I wanted was a minute to say the right thing. All I got was turbulence, humiliation, and a phone full of unsent texts. And, apparently, Fork Guy’s audition for America’s Got Talent: Airport Edition.

Maybe that’s the problem. I keep hiding out, hoping the right words will show up if I wait long enough. Maybe it’s time to say what I feel, even if it’s messy and awkward and public and probably ends with Fork Guy getting banned from every airline in the continental US.

I sigh, step out, and brace myself to wrangle a karaoke mic from a man who once tried to use a fork as a lightning rod.

If the universe wants to punish me with a viral TikTok, so be it.

At least I’ll have a story. And hey, if Camdyn’s watching, maybe she’ll appreciate a guy who’s willing to make a complete ass of himself for love—or at least for some really questionable in-flight entertainment.