But the pilot said it’s clear on our path.
“We have rain systems east of us,” he’d said casually. “But we’ll skirt them.”
The cabin is sleek—leather seats, dark wood trim, low ambient lighting. Quiet luxury. The kind of space that feels detached from reality.
I buckle in.
The engines roar to life.
And as we climb, I feel it.
That pull.
That ache.
Missing her is physical.
Like a low hum in my chest that won’t quiet.
I pull my headphones on.
There’s equipment onboard—portable rig, production setup. I told myself I’d use the flight to tweak the bridge.
But that’s not what comes out.
Every time I start building a beat—it shifts.
Softens. Something warmer creeps in.
Not club ready.
Not stadium ready.
More like turn down the lights ready.
It’s her.
The rhythm feels like the cadence of her voice.
The rise and fall like the way she says my name.
I shake my head.
“Jesus,” I mutter to myself.
I’m writing love songs now?
For a bookstore girl in polka dots and Berenstain Bears panties?
Maybe I am.
And I don’t even hate it.
Hours pass, but I hardly notice, engrossed with my music and thoughts of her.
I glance at my watch. We should be there soon.
And I can’t wait.