GHOSTS IN THE SKY

I’m exhausted. Three hours of sleep can’t come fast enough. The air is stale with too many bodies crammed into a tin can, and the hum of passengers trying to jam oversized bags into the overhead bins makes my head throb.

I finally make it to my row, ready to collapse into my window seat. My mood dips further.

“Excuse me,” I say, forcing a polite tone to an older woman who struggles with her luggage. Before I can help, a tall man with a baseball cap pulled low steps in. His build is solid—broad shoulders, lean muscles under a faded gray hoodie—as he effortlessly hoists her bag into the compartment.

I wait, fidgeting, staring at the line of passengers still boarding. The cabin feels too warm, suffocating. The smell of disinfectant lingers in the air, failing to mask the scent of too many people packed into too little space.

My phone dings loudly, startling me.

I glance down at the screen—it's August, my best friend. After a long weekend together, the idea of returning to my California king bed is the only thing keeping me sane.

"I miss you already, thanks for celebrating with me… call me when you land, love muffin.”

I grin. Miss you more… my head is pounding but I had a blast, snickerdoodle. I’ll text you when I land, I type back quickly before stuffing my phone into my bag.

The guy in front of me speaks, his voice deep and raspy. “You’re all set now. Just tap me once we land, and I’ll help you with your luggage.”

Something about the tone freezes me. No, it can’t be. My hand stills on the armrest, my pulse racing.

I step forward, and the man turns. My heart stops.

"Dre?"

The man looks up, his face shadowed beneath the brim of the cap, but there’s no mistaking him. His eyes widen, recognition flashing across his features.

"Bri?" His voice is shaky, and he rubs the back of his neck—the same nervous habit he’s had since we’d met.

Of all the flights, all the seats...

“What are you doing here?” I manage, trying to sound casual, but my voice wavers.

“Same as you, I guess,” he says awkwardly, his gaze darting between me and the boarding pass in his hand.

I glance at my own ticket. No. No, no, no.

22A. I’m by the window.

He holds up his boarding pass. 22B.

"You’ve got to be kidding me," I mutter, biting the inside of my cheek. Of all the people to sit next to, it had to be him.

The cabin feels smaller, closing in. I slide into my seat, watching as Dre awkwardly settles beside me. The leather of the armrest between us feels like the only barrier from the avalanche of memories threatening to crush me.

The plane engines rumble as the cabin fills, the clink of seat belts and faint murmur of conversations forming a dull roar. The flight attendants start their safety briefing, but my mind’s locked on the man sitting inches away.

Two years. Two years since he walked out of my life without a word. And now he’s back, sitting beside me like it’s some kind of twisted fate.

"Bri, listen," he says, voice low. "I didn’t expect to see you…"

I keep my eyes on the window. "Yeah, well, life’s full of surprises."

Silence. The tension between us thickens as the plane creeps toward the runway. I focus on the clouds forming in the distance, anything to avoid his eyes.

“I know I messed up,” he says, softer this time. “I—”

I whip my head around, my eyes blazing. “You didn’t just mess up, Dre. You disappeared. Like I meant nothing.”

He flinches, jaw tightening. “I didn’t know how to handle it back then,” he mutters, rubbing his neck again. “I wasn’t ready for what we had. I thought you deserved more than I could give.”

I laugh bitterly. “So your solution was to ghost me? That’s mature.”

The plane lifts off, the seat belt sign flickering on. I grip the armrests, not from the ascent but from the swirl of emotions pulling at me—anger, hurt, the undeniable tension that still exists between us.

“I regretted it,” Dre says, his voice strained. “Every day, Bri. I should’ve been honest with you. I should’ve stayed.”

I clench my teeth. His words stir something deep inside, something I’ve tried for two years to bury.

"You don’t get to say that now," I snap, my voice cracking. “You can’t just show up and act like saying sorry fixes it.”

"I’m not asking for forgiveness," he whispers, his gaze fixed on the seat in front of him. "I just... I needed you to know."

The engines drone on, but inside, it’s as if everything has stilled. The cabin feels colder now, the air heavier. I stare out the window, watching the clouds blur below, unsure what to feel.

The hurt is still there, but so is something else. Closure? Maybe. Or maybe it’s just the finality of hearing him admit what I always suspected—that he ran because he was scared.

As we stand, he turns to me, his expression vulnerable. “If there’s ever a time… if you’re ever ready to talk more, I’ll be here, Bri.”

I pause, considering his words, feeling the years of hurt and regret between us. “Maybe,” I say, my voice barely a whisper. “But I don’t know when.”

He nods, his face softening. “I can wait.”

We exit the plane in silence, our steps slow, tentative. I don’t look back, but as I walk away, I know that maybe—just maybe—there’s a chance for us to find closure one day. For now, it’s enough to leave the door open.

Danie Sanchez is an artist and storyteller, who uses her work to explore love, joy, and the messy beauty of life. A Baltimore native, she weaves personal truths with universal themes, inviting others to see themselves in her stories. Danie believes healing starts with vulnerability and that art is one of the most powerful ways to express it. When she’s not writing, you’ll find her creating something new, digging into her next project, or finding magic in the simple moments of life.