I Don't Know Your Story, But I Can Read Your Hurt

It’s my first time flying in 15 years, and I’m stuck at the Denver Airport. We’re on the third delay and fifth gate change. I was supposed to be in St. George six hours ago, and now my entire work schedule has to be rearranged via spotty cell service in a corner of the overly crowded lounge area.

I’m hungry and exhausted and grumpy and completely over everything.

I’m trying to find a food place without a million-mile-long line and getting antsy because my colleagues haven’t texted me back.

I hear you before I see you.

“Just get me on a fucking plane!”

If you’re aware of the increasing number of eyes on you, you don’t seem to care.

“Get me the fuck home! Just get me on a fucking plane and get me the fuck home!”

I’m not sure if you’re screaming at the bewildered ticket agent at the gate or the person on the other end of the phone that you’re now brandishing like a weapon. Maybe at this point, you don’t know either. You don’t look like you’ve slept in a while. You also don’t look like you’re completely grounded in reality at the moment.

I’m immediately frustrated. People like you are the reason people like the ticket agent quit on the spot. You’re just making a bad situation worse by causing a scene, and I’m a little embarrassed for you.

I’m completely devoid of anything resembling energy when we finally board. As I’m mentally calculating the amount of time I have until I can pass out on a scratchy hotel comforter, I see you slide into the seat one row up and across the aisle from me.

Back at the airport, you’d been bundled in a giant red parka that didn’t make much sense for a mid-August flight to the desert. Now you slip it off your shoulders, and my heart drops. Your shoulder blades jut out at angry angles. Your arms are like sticks, and skin stretches taut over their bones like paper. At some point, your denim halter dress must have served a purpose, but here it makes even less sense than the parka.

I try not to stare as the flight attendant repeatedly asks you to fasten your safety belt and you repeatedly ignore her. Instead, you focus on scrolling through your phone with its cracked screen. You’re vacillating between a text window and your photo album. As you swipe through pictures of streetlamps, you twirl a strand of broken, frayed hair around your finger. I wonder if you’re able to remember what hair color you were born with.

I wonder if you’re even old enough to lose track of things like that.

When the flight attendant brings the drink cart, you ask for sparkling water. Your face twists into a child-like grimace as soon as you take a sip, and when the flight attendant doesn’t return to take the can away, you walk right up the front of the plane, put it on a shelf, and call her a fucking bitch a little louder than necessary.

Now you’re chewing gum. You unwrap the pieces and one by one and shove them into your mouth until the pack is empty. Then you crumple it and tuck it away into the seatback pocket. I wonder if you’re craving a cigarette or something more sinister.

Your frustration is palpable, and your energy is sad.

The man sitting next to you asks where you’re headed, but instead of answering you lean your head back and close your eyes. I think I see a few tears fall down your cheek, but that might be my imagination.

You don’t seem like the crying-on-a-plane type.

For the rest of the flight, you stay curled in your seat — head back, eyes closed, phantom tears falling in rivets down the hollow valleys of your cheeks. When we land, you’re the first one out of your seat. You only have a tiny backpack with you. I hadn’t noticed before that it’s remarkably similar to one I had as a child.

If I took your hand right now and told you that everything will be okay, would you believe me? Or would you tell me that I’m full of shit? Maybe things won’t be okay. Maybe you won’t be okay. Maybe you don’t even want to try.

I hope someone is waiting for you here. I hope someone is here to put your tiny backpack into a trunk full of groceries and gym clothes and let you fiddle with the radio stations. I hope someone is going to fill you in on what you missed while you were away and swings through the drive-through that’s not quite on the way home but has your favorite chocolate milkshakes. I hope that you fall into a cozy bed made up with sheets you’ve had since you were a kid.

I just hope you’re okay.

This story originally appeared here: https://medium.com/age-of-empathy/i-dont-know-your-story-but-i-can-read-your-hurt-af0ba79480db