I’m obese. It’s a fact, not an excuse. When I fly alone, I always buy two seats. Not just for my comfort, but for everyone else’s too. It’s a courtesy, a small attempt to make a claustrophobic space tolerable for myself and the poor soul who might otherwise be squashed beside me. For this work trip, I had the window and middle seat, armrest up, a rare moment of peace on a crowded plane. I leaned back, closed my eyes, ready to just exist for a few hours. Then they showed up. A couple, radiating an almost offensively smug confidence. He was tall, perfectly groomed, that kind of chiseled arrogance. She was tiny, all sharp angles and bright, artificial blonde. My heart sank. Please, just pass by. But they stopped. Right there.
He looked at my two seats, then at me, then back at the seats with a sneer. Without a word, he just… plopped down. In my second seat. Sprawled, actually. My oasis, instantly invaded.
“Excuse me,” I started, my voice smaller than I wanted. “I’m so sorry, but I actually paid for both of these seats.”
He looked up, a flicker of something dismissive in his eyes. He actually scoffed. “Seriously?!” His gaze swept over me, lingering on my body for a beat too long. “It’s EMPTY. RELAX.” He didn’t even wait for a reply, just settled in deeper, already bumping my arm with his elbow.
I felt heat rise in my cheeks. My stomach churned. This was exactly why I bought two seats – to avoid this humiliation. “No, really,” I pushed, trying to keep my voice even. “I paid for it. Could you please move?”
He ignored me, pulling out his phone. His shoulder kept nudging mine, not accidentally, but with purpose. A silent, aggressive challenge. His partner, meanwhile, was pretending to be engrossed in her magazine, a small, knowing smirk playing on her lips. She knew. They were doing this together.
My blood was boiling. I imagined calling the flight attendant, making a scene, having to justify my existence, my size, my need for extra space. The humiliation of it all was almost paralyzing. I could feel tears pricking at my eyes, a familiar knot of shame tightening in my chest. I felt small. Invisible. Deserving of this cruel disregard. I could’ve called the flight attendant. I should have.
But instead, I smiled.
Not a sweet smile. Not a defeated one. A slow, chilling smile that felt alien on my face, twisting my lips into something I barely recognized. Because as he had finally looked up, irritated by my persistence, his eyes met mine. And in that instant, I recognized him.
My heart didn’t just skip a beat; it dropped, cold and heavy, to the pit of my stomach. It was him. All the weight I’d gained, all the years that had passed, had blurred me just enough for him not to know. But him? His face was etched into my nightmares. He was my ex-fiancé. The one who had left me seven years ago, saying I needed to “fix myself,” that he “deserved better.” The one who ghosted me, disappearing with no explanation, leaving me utterly broken.
And the tiny blonde woman, meticulously ignoring me? That was her. The reason. The woman he told me not to worry about.
MY GOD.
He was still bumping into me, an irritating, persistent shove against my arm. “I’M NOT MOVING. DEAL WITH IT,” he snapped, his voice sharp and final.
Deal with it. The words hung in the air, echoing the past, a fresh wound opening on an old scar. I leaned back again, my smile unwavering, though inside, I was screaming. Oh, I’m dealing with it, darling. He had no idea.
I had bought two seats. And he had taken one. I let him. Because I knew, with absolute certainty, the destination of this flight. I knew where he was going, and who was waiting for him. And I knew, with a sickeningly sweet clarity, that she was going to be so disappointed that he didn’t show up. Because I was going to be there first. And by the time this plane landed, she would know everything.
