Between Departures: A Quiet Hour With a Book
He'd learned, over years of transit lounges and delayed flights, that waiting was only unbearable if you let it be. So he'd found this bench overlooking the runway, his suitcase and backpack resting against his leg like patient companions, and opened the book he'd been meaning to finish for months.
The city hummed somewhere behind him, but out here it was just the pale blue stretch of sky, the distant hum of engines, and the soft rustle of pages turning in the wind. He wasn't running from anything, and he wasn't rushing toward anything either — for once, he was simply between places, and that felt like its own quiet kind of freedom.
Every trip had taught him something new about himself, but this stillness before departure was where he did his best thinking. The mountains sat hazy on the horizon, indifferent and beautiful, and somewhere beyond them was wherever he was headed next. He didn't check the time. He didn't check his phone. He just read, one page at a time, letting the world wait for him instead of the other way around.
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