Page 26

SEBASTIAN

T he plane is quiet.

Not silent—there’s the low hum of engines, the rustle of jackets, the occasional sharp laugh from a few rows back—but the kind of quiet that stretches long and tight when you’re trying too hard to breathe like nothing’s wrong.

Olivia's four rows up. Window seat. I can’t see her face—just the shape of her shoulder, the fall of her hair, the way she hasn’t moved in ten minutes. Eyes fixed on the glass like the clouds might finally say something that makes this all make sense.

She hasn’t looked at me once.

And that shouldn’t kill me the way it does.

But it fucking does.

Because now I know what it feels like to hold her. To wake up with her skin against mine. To hear her laugh without the weight of her job between us. And pretending that didn’t happen—like it’s some mistake we can fold up and tuck away like it never meant anything—isn’t just impossible.

It’s unbearable.

I shift in my seat, elbows on my knees, head bowed.

Part of me wants to get up. Walk down the aisle. Sit beside her and say something that fixes it. That makes it simple again. But there’s nothing simple left between us. There never really was.

And maybe that’s the point.

Maybe the fact that it’s messy and scary and fucked six ways from Sunday is the clearest sign that it’s real.

I reach for the notepad in the seat pocket, the stubby pencil tucked beside it. I don’t know what I think I’m going to do—leave her a message? Scribble down a half-apology? Some kind of confession?

I hover for a second, then write:

You make me want to be better.

I stare at it.

Three seconds.

Five.

Then tear the page out, fold it once, and slide it into my hoodie pocket.

She doesn’t need words from me right now.

She needs time.

She needs space to breathe.

But if she turns around—even once—I’ll be there.

Not pushing. Not fixing.

Just staying.

Because I can’t pretend she doesn’t matter.

And I won’t walk away just because I’m afraid I’ll mess it up.