Somewhere over the Pacific, I lost track of time. The flight from Manila to Seattle stretches longer than anything I’ve ever done — physically, emotionally, spiritually. The lights in the cabin are dimmed now, most passengers asleep under flimsy blankets, but I’m still awake.
It’s hard to sleep when your heart is this full — and this fragile.
The flight crew served dinner a few hours ago. I picked at it absently, my eyes flicking between the in-flight movie and the endless black outside the window. It feels like I’m suspended in a dream, halfway between two lives. The girl who boarded in Manila is already changing.
I curled up in my seat, hoodie pulled tight, fuzzy socks warming my feet. It’s a kind of comfort I haven’t known in months — quiet, undemanding, peaceful. Every so often, I glance at the little flight map on the screen and smile. We’re crossing oceans. I’m crossing thresholds.
I’ve thought about what I’ll say when I finally see my friend in Oklahoma. How I’ll explain the silences, the pain, the courage it took to leave. Maybe I won’t have to say anything at all. Maybe they’ll just know.
The air is cold up here. But my heart feels warm.
There’s still a long way to go. But I’m moving. And this flight, this space in-between, is part of my becoming.
Seattle is waiting. Then Dallas. Then… home.
