Page 29 of Past Lives
Across from her, separated by a river of polished floor, a man with wind-tousled dark hair watches raindrops race down the floor-to-ceiling windows. Weariness settles in the corners of his eyes—not the exhaustion of sleepless nights, but the weight of someone who has seen too many sunsets from unfamiliar horizons. The boarding pass in his hand reveals his name: Holden Carter.
The overhead speaker crackles to life, the announcement cutting through the ambient hum: “Final call for Flight 312 to Edinburgh, now boarding at Gate 27.”
Mira rises in a flurry, cramming her sketchbook into her overstuffed messenger bag. Her burgundy passport slips from her fingers and skids across the glossy floor. The man—Holden—is there instantly. His worn leather boots stop just short of the document as he bends to retrieve it.
"Careful," he says. His voice carries the faintest hint of an accent she can’t place. He extends the passport toward her. Their fingertips brush—a fleeting touch—but the air seems to crystallize. Time stretches like pulled taffy for half a heartbeat.
Her pulse skips then races, blood rushing to her cheeks as a sudden vulnerability sweeps over her; she feels exposed and unexpectedly hopeful. His breath hitches audibly, pupils dilating slightly as an unexpected thrill stirs beneath his calm facade. Neither understands why their bodies have betrayed them with such intensity, but both feel a confusing longing.
“Thank you,” she murmurs, a hesitant smile playing at the corners of her mouth, revealing the slight unevenness of her front teeth. “Anytime,” he replies, the word carrying a weight that belies the fact that they are perfect strangers.
She takes two steps backward before turning to the gate, boots tapping softly against the floor. As she hands her crumpled ticket to the attendant, she glances back over one shoulder. He remains rooted, head tilted at a curious angle. His furrowed brow gradually smooths to an expression between confusion and recognition.
Holden stares at her retreating figure, then at his boarding pass for Flight 312. Without conscious thought, his feet carry him forward. He joins the last passengers filing through the gate.
The wide aisle of first class feels like a dream. Holden’s boarding pass directs him to 3B—an aisle seat in the exclusivecabin. Passengers are already sipping pre-flight champagne. He stops at his row, 3A already occupied by a familiar messenger bag against the cream-leather seat.
“I believe I’m—” The words catch in his throat as Mira looks up from her open sketchbook, that same hesitant smile playing at her uneven teeth. Recognition blooms in her eyes as his gaze moves from her to his assigned window seat.
“Well,” she says softly, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear, champagne flute poised in her other hand. “What are the odds?”
Somewhere, across time and sky, two souls smile — and start again.