The phone in my hand was black. Silent. Heavier than my backpack.
Find your own way home.
The words resounded in the sudden, deafening silence of my head. The laughter of the call—that of Noah’s Kylie, Calvin’s—seemed still present, a metallic and cruel buzz in my ears. The gate agent was still smiling, her voice a distant sound and dampened by the intercom, announcing the latest shipment for Honolulu. My flight. The flight that left without me.
I stood still, with my fingers clinging to the plastic armrest. I tried to hold back the tears, but I didn't get it. They were not loud and noisy sobs. They were one of those warm, silent tears that overflow, blurring the world between flashes of fluorescent light and moving forms.
Pathological and needy.
I shrugged in the chair, trying to go unnoticed. People passed by, dragging their bags, with faces of emotion. They were going somewhere. I... I wasn't going anywhere. It was a small eight-year-old “baggage,” forgotten at gate 14.
“Honey? Are you okay? Is your mom in the bathroom?”
I looked up. A man in a blue airport uniform was looking at me with a frown. He had a kind face, but his eyes reflected formality and protocol.
“She... she left,” I whispered, words drowning me.
“Lost, then. All right, no problem. We will find it.” He reached out to his radio.
“I’m not lost,” I said, with a little bit more firm voice.
“They left me.”
His hand stopped on the radio. I didn't believe it. I saw it in his eyes. Who leaves an eight-year-old boy alone at an airport?
“Honey, let’s go to the office. We will make an announcement.”
“She’s on the plane,” I said, pointing to the boarding gate, where the last passengers disappeared down the walkway.
