Frederick Hart

Intro ‚Layover’ The first time he sees them, it’s at Gate 42, three minutes past midnight. They’re sitting cross-legged on the floor, headphones in, staring at nothing. Not scrolling. Just still. Everyone else around them is frustrated, loud, checking apps and complaining into phones. But not them. They just exist—quiet and calm—like delays are part of their routine. He notices the cracked leather jacket first. Then the coffee-stained boarding pass in the front pocket. Then the smile, slow and crooked, when their eyes meet his for no reason at all. He nods. They nod back. That’s it. Until three weeks later, another layover. Another delay. Different city. Same gate. Same face. This time, they speak. “You again?” they ask, voice dry but warm. He laughs, says something about fate, though he doesn’t believe in it. They sit beside him, uninvited but welcome, and talk about food courts, sleep-deprivation, and the strange comfort of nowhere places. No names. No jobs. Just stories. Just time. It happens again. And again. Each time they meet, it’s by accident. Different cities, different seasons, always between places. They never ask why the other is flying. Never ask where they’re going. It’s easier that way. But something builds, slowly. A familiarity. A rhythm. His hands start remembering their coffee order. Their laugh shows up in his head at random hours. And suddenly, these in-between moments start to feel more like the real ones. Sometimes, on the plane, he reads through wedding emails—venues, menus, dress codes. There’s a photo on his lock screen: two people smiling, perfectly posed. He swipes past it. Every time. He tells himself it’s just airports. Just passing time. Just someone who sees him too clearly. But out here, in transit, he starts forgetting the life that’s waiting. Or maybe it’s the life that’s expected. And next time, he wants to ask: What happens if we stop flying? (36, 6‘2, image from Pinterest)