Flight 1

It’s 4:30 in the morning when my alarm starts blaring. I roll over, squinting at the screen. The numbers stare back at me like an old enemy. It’s too early for this, but I’ve been at this job long enough to know that my body doesn’t have a say anymore. The days blur together—late nights, early mornings, endless flights, and the same routine that starts again every time the sun rises.

I don’t bother snoozing the alarm. I’ve learned the hard way that the extra five minutes never help. So, I throw off the covers, slide my feet to the floor, and stand up. The floor is cold, but that’s the least of my worries right now. I can already hear the sound of the coffee brewing from the kitchen, my one comfort.

I stand in front of the mirror for a minute, letting my reflection come into focus. My hair is messy from sleep, and my eyes are still heavy. A sigh escapes me as I run my fingers through my hair, trying to pull it back into something manageable. My uniform is already laid out, folded neatly on the chair beside the bed. Black skirt, white blouse, navy blue blazer—standard uniform. It doesn’t matter if I’m on a red-eye flight or a midday route to New York; the outfit is always the same. I take a moment to look at myself before I head into the bathroom to wash up.

I’ve never really liked the idea of being too attached to anything—certainly not to my appearance. But I know the importance of it, especially in my line of work. The airline industry is obsessed with first impressions. Everything from the moment you step into the terminal to the way you greet a passenger is under a microscope. So, I make sure to look the part. Perfectly pressed, no wrinkles, no loose strands. It’s a mask I wear—professional, composed, and distant.

Once I’ve gotten myself together, I head to the kitchen. The scent of coffee fills the small space. A simple pleasure, but it’s a comfort I’ve come to rely on. I pour myself a cup, black, just the way I like it, and take a seat at the small kitchen table. It’s quiet in the apartment. The kind of quiet that makes you feel like the world is still asleep, and I relish it for as long as I can before the chaos begins.

The last few days have been a blur. Another series of flights, another set of faces, all fading in and out of memory. Each one a little different, but mostly the same. There’s a routine to it—takeoff, service, landing, repeat. Passengers board, take their seats, and I’m there, serving drinks, making polite conversation, handling complaints. I’ve perfected the art of emotional detachment. After all, it’s not personal. It’s never personal.

The airport is chaotic this morning, as it always is. People rushing through security, running late for their flights, dragging their luggage behind them like it’s some kind of anchor to their already chaotic lives. I’ve seen it all before. The stressed-out businessman who thinks the world is ending because he’s lost his boarding pass. The family of five who are convinced that their two-year-old can’t possibly sit still for an hour. The group of teenagers who think it’s hilarious to argue over the armrest between them. I’ve learned to tune it all out.

There’s a certain level of grace required to make it through a day of constant turbulence—both literal and figurative. When I step onto the plane, the cabin is a maze of neatly arranged seats, all of them filled with strangers, each with their own story and their own set of expectations. My job is to make sure none of those stories interfere with the flow of the flight.

I take my first few steps down the aisle, smiling as I greet the passengers. “Good morning, sir. Ma’am. Welcome aboard.” The words are automatic, rehearsed. My smile is genuine, but only just. I don’t have the energy to fake it all the time, not with every single passenger. They don’t know me, and frankly, I don’t know them. It’s easier that way.

Once everyone is settled, I make my way to the galley to prepare for takeoff. The crew is already there, busy organizing supplies and checking safety equipment. There’s a certain rhythm to it all, like a well-rehearsed dance. We move in sync, each of us performing our designated roles without much thought. We’ve done this a thousand times before.

I check the passenger list. The names are all unfamiliar, just a long string of letters and numbers. It doesn’t matter. They’ll all be gone by the time we land. That’s the beauty of this job—no one ever sticks around long enough to matter.

As we prepare for takeoff, I take my seat in the jump seat, securing my harness. I’ve done this countless times, but the routine still feels comforting. The familiar sounds of the engines starting, the subtle hum of the plane coming to life—it’s the only thing that ever feels like home.

Once we’re in the air, I begin the in-flight service. Drinks, snacks, meals—nothing new. I make my way down the aisle, offering a tray to one passenger, then the next. I’ve heard all the complaints. The food is terrible. The seats are uncomfortable. The air is too dry. There’s always something, but it’s never anything I can change. I just nod, smile, and move on.

But then, there’s one passenger who catches my eye. He’s sitting in first class, reading a newspaper, his face partially hidden behind the pages. I try not to stare, but something about him draws my attention. His jaw is sharp, his posture immaculate. Even sitting there, with a coffee cup in hand, he exudes an air of quiet confidence. I can’t help but notice the way he holds himself, like he owns the space he occupies.

I continue down the aisle, pushing the cart ahead of me, but my thoughts keep returning to him. He’s different from the others—calm, composed, and, in a way, untouchable. I don’t know why I feel this pull, but I quickly shake it off. I’ve learned long ago that getting involved with any passenger is a mistake. They come and go, and so do the fleeting moments of connection.

As I make my way back to the galley, I feel a slight shift in the air. There’s a certain tension that settles in when a first-class passenger looks up from their newspaper, especially one with a presence like his. I try to ignore it, focusing on my duties as I pour another cup of coffee, but the feeling lingers.

The rest of the flight proceeds without much incident. I finish my rounds, exchange pleasantries with the passengers, and prepare for descent. As I strap myself back into my seat for landing, I glance back toward first class. The man is gone. Just like that. Another nameless face in a sea of passengers.

The plane lands smoothly, and I do my final checks before we disembark. I say goodbye to the passengers, my words once again polite but distant. "Thank you for flying with us. We hope to see you again soon." The routine is the same, no surprises.

But as I step off the plane, I can’t shake the feeling that today something was different. Maybe it was the man in first class, or maybe it was just the exhaustion from the endless cycle of flights, but there’s an unfamiliar sense of longing that lingers in the back of my mind. I don’t know why, but I push it aside.

This is my life. The routine. The detachment. The distance. It works. It has to. Because in a world where I can’t afford to let anyone in, this is the only way I know how to survive.

Tomorrow, I’ll wake up early again. And the cycle will begin once more.