The flight had begun in the grey drizzle of a London dawn. Takeoff from Terminal 5 was a lurch of duty-free perfume and the clatter of boarding passes. A businessman next to him immediately ordered a whiskey. A toddler two rows back began to wail. Standard exodus. The flight path arced over the white cliffs of Dover, then across the bruised skin of the English Channel. Goodbye, Europe.
So he had sold his car, sublet his apartment, and bought a one-way ticket he couldn’t really afford.
Now he stood in the aisle, waiting for the door to open. On the other side was Priya. Or not. But he had travelled the arc of the Earth to find out.
He’d done it for a girl, of course. The oldest reason. Her name was Priya, and she had sent him a letter—a physical, paper letter, which arrived in his grey London flat like a relic from another century. Come see me. One month. If it’s real, you’ll know.
They stopped in Dubai. A glass-and-steel mirage where everyone moved with the frantic purpose of the soon-to-be-stranded. Daniel walked laps around the terminal, listening to a dozen languages crackle through the PA. He bought an overpriced coffee and watched a family of five argue over a duty-free Toblerone. Then the second leg began.