She had looked up at him with those wide brown eyes—her mother’s eyes—and asked why. Didn’t he like the sky anymore?
Something fractured inside his chest that day, a vital piece of himself he carefully buried and never touched again.
“I like you more,” he told her.
“I like you more than anything in the whole world.”
Now, seated on a commercial aircraft and surrounded by strangers who looked straight through him as if he didn’t exist, that buried part stirred.
A flight attendant hurried past his row, her calm barely masking fear. A businessman across the aisle gripped his armrest until his knuckles turned white. Somewhere behind him, an elderly woman whispered a prayer in Spanish.
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