Flight 5

I had no idea what it was like to be someone like Adrian Blackwell. To live in a world of constant pressure, to have everyone around you pull in different directions, demanding things that, in the end, just add more weight to your shoulders. I’ve been a flight attendant long enough to meet all kinds of people—rich, poor, happy, miserable—but somehow, there was something about Adrian that stuck with me, even when I was off-duty, even when I tried to forget him.

The truth is, I didn’t really know him. Not the way I know the people I’ve worked with, or even the passengers I serve. But somehow, I felt like I understood him on a level that went deeper than just surface interactions. I’ve seen the coldness in his eyes, the distance in his posture. But that’s not the part that lingered. It was the emptiness—the way he seemed to shrink into himself, as if the world around him was too much to bear. It wasn’t arrogance that defined him. It wasn’t the air of superiority that he carried, or the quiet control that he exuded. It was something deeper. Something that no amount of money could fix. And that intrigued me.

I can’t say I’ve had a lot of time to sit and wonder about Adrian’s life. But when you’ve been in the air long enough, surrounded by the dull hum of the engines, the murmurs of quiet conversations, and the occasional clink of glasses, your mind tends to wander. It was during one of those long flights, when the hours dragged by and I had nothing but my thoughts to keep me company, that I found myself thinking about him again.

I tried to push it out of my mind. I really did. After all, he’s just another passenger. One of those rich people who think the world revolves around them. But then I remembered the way he’d looked at me during that first flight. Not like I was just another face in the crowd. There had been something there, something I couldn’t quite name. And that unsettled me more than I cared to admit.

But what unsettled me even more was the realization that I could never be part of that world—the world he came from, the one where the air was always thick with expectation. The weight of his family’s legacy, the pressure to perform and succeed in ways that mattered only to them, was something I couldn’t even begin to comprehend. The people I’ve known—those I’ve let close—never had that kind of burden. They had their own struggles, of course, but they didn’t come with an invisible weight that threatened to crush them every single day.

Adrian was the kind of person who lived in a constant state of unrest. I could see it in the way his shoulders tensed every time someone mentioned his family’s expectations. I could see it in the way he’d retreat to his office, isolating himself from the rest of the world as if it was the only way to survive. But it wasn’t just the expectations that wore him down. It was the loneliness that clung to him like a second skin.

I’ve worked with enough lonely people to recognize the signs. The subtle ways they avoid eye contact, the way they speak in short sentences as if they’re afraid of revealing too much. Adrian had mastered the art of emotional detachment, not out of choice, but because it had been ingrained in him. He had built his walls so high that nothing could get through. Not even the genuine human connections he so desperately craved, though I’m sure he would never admit it.

Adrian’s loneliness wasn’t something that could be solved with wealth or success. Sure, he had everything a person could want. A sprawling mansion, the best cars, the finest suits. But none of that would fill the void inside of him. The emptiness that came from living a life that felt more like a performance than a real existence.

I could tell that Adrian didn’t like feeling this way. He was constantly on edge, always moving, always working. When we first met, I thought it was just a part of his persona. The cool, aloof billionaire who doesn’t get attached to anything or anyone. But over time, I began to see the cracks in that façade. The way he’d look out the window with a distant gaze, the way his smile never quite reached his eyes. He was someone who had everything, and yet, still seemed to be missing the one thing he needed most: human connection.

I’ve seen it before in the passengers I serve. People who have everything and still feel empty inside. They fill the void with material things, thinking that if they just have one more luxury, one more indulgence, they’ll finally feel whole. But it doesn’t work that way. No amount of money can fill the spaces inside you that are meant to be filled by something real. By love, by friendship, by intimacy.

But Adrian… he wasn’t like the other people I’d met. There was something different about him, something deeper. I could see the way he struggled with it, how he kept his emotions at arm’s length, as if he was afraid of getting too close to anyone. I couldn’t help but wonder if it was because he had been hurt before. If someone had left him feeling like he was too much to handle, or if he had let someone in only to watch them walk away.

It made me think about my own struggles with intimacy. About how I had built up walls around myself, brick by brick, after each failed relationship, after every betrayal. It wasn’t just about protecting myself from the hurt—it was about not allowing anyone to get close enough to see the things I couldn’t fix. The broken parts of me that I kept hidden away.

I’d spent so much time focusing on keeping my heart safe that I forgot what it felt like to let someone in. To share my fears, my insecurities, my hopes. To allow someone to see me for who I really am.

Adrian had the same fear. But I could see it. I could see the way his eyes softened when he was alone, how the weight of his family’s expectations weighed so heavily on him. I wanted to help him. I wanted to reach out, to break through the walls he had built, but I knew better than that. People like Adrian, with their wealth and status, they didn’t need someone like me—a flight attendant, a person who was always on the periphery, always on the outside looking in.

I spent the next few days flying, trying to push Adrian out of my mind, trying to focus on my job, on the routine that I had built to protect myself. But it was hard. The thought of him lingered like smoke in my lungs, refusing to dissipate. I found myself thinking about him more and more, about his lonely eyes and his distant demeanor. It made me question everything I thought I knew about myself.

I told myself I didn’t want to get involved with someone like him. That it was better to keep my distance, to avoid getting emotionally entangled in something that could only end in disappointment. I had made a vow to myself years ago that I would never let myself fall for someone who couldn’t give me what I needed. But Adrian was different.

Even as I tried to distance myself, I couldn’t help but feel a pull toward him. The same loneliness I saw in his eyes echoed in my own heart. And in that moment, I realized something that terrified me—I wasn’t as different from Adrian Blackwell as I’d thought. We were both just two people trying to navigate a world that had never quite understood us. Two people, desperately trying to fill the emptiness inside.

But I couldn’t let that pull lead me anywhere. I knew better than to let my guard down. I’d been burned before. I couldn’t afford to make the same mistake again.

So, I kept my distance. I kept my walls high. And I tried to forget about Adrian Blackwell, the lonely billionaire who had everything except the one thing he truly needed.