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Bangkok Airport.
Not exactly my idea of a thrilling location to start a new chapter in life, but hey, the air conditioning is working, so that's already a win.
The sky outside is smothered in thick, grey clouds. Not the dramatic "storm of the century" kind, just a uniform, flat grey like someone clicked "fill layer" in Photoshop and called it a day. If clouds had a mood right now, they'd be saying, "We're here, but we're not trying."
I'm sitting at Gate 42, in one of those airport chairs that seem designed to discourage long-term comfort. You know the kind—plastic frame, token padding, enough curve to dig right into your shoulder blades if you lean wrong. It squeaks when I shift, which is just fantastic for my already questionable patience levels.
My backpack is between my feet, and man… it's been through it. The straps are frayed, the fabric is faded, and there's still a faint stain from that time I spilled iced coffee on it in Ho Chi Minh City. Eleven months of nonstop travel will do that to a bag. Actually, it'll do that to you too.
And me? Yeah, I feel like the human equivalent of my backpack—functional but clearly worn.
---
I've been passing time the usual way: doom-scrolling through my phone gallery.
First photo: a ridiculously perfect beach in Sri Lanka. Sand so white it's blinding, water so blue it looks edited.
Swipe.
Bowl of pho in Hanoi. I remember the broth was so hot it fogged up my glasses. That was also the day I learned "extra spicy" in Vietnamese means "we're about to melt your face off."
Swipe.
A rain-slick alley in Osaka. I thought it looked "artistic" at the time—something about neon signs reflecting on puddles. Looking at it now, it just looks wet.
Swipe.
A group selfie with… uh… three people whose names I definitely don't remember. Pretty sure they were from Germany. Or maybe Denmark. Whatever, they were nice.
Swipe.
Ah, here we are. Three weeks ago. Me, in a cracked hostel bathroom mirror. Hair damp from the monsoon, eyes slightly red. That was the day I'd gotten caught in the rain twice, indoors. Don't ask how. I look tired in that photo—like I'd been traveling for eleven months straight. Which, you know, checks out.
I linger on it a second longer than necessary, then swipe past. No point dwelling.
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The departure screen in front of me blinks softly.
Flight 807 to Narita – On Time.
No delays. No boarding gate changes. No "due to technical issues, your flight has been cancelled, please enjoy the rest of your life in Bangkok" announcements. Perfectly routine.
I don't know why, but seeing that feels… weirdly underwhelming. Like the universe missed a chance to throw a plot twist at me.
I glance around the waiting area. The guy two seats down is asleep with his mouth open, head tilted back at a 90-degree angle. The couple across from me is having the kind of whispered argument that's definitely not about what they're whispering about. A kid somewhere nearby is making airplane noises that sound more like a dying blender.
Everything's normal. Which is to say, boring.
Boarding Time
The announcement comes over the speakers, that soft, calm voice that airports use to convince you everything is fine.
> "Passengers for Flight 807 to Narita, please proceed to boarding at Gate 42. We will now begin boarding passengers seated in Rows 25 and above."
I stand, stretch, and join the slow-moving line. The gate agent smiles at me—automatic, practiced. She probably couldn't pick me out of a lineup five minutes from now. My passport gets scanned, the machine beeps in acceptance, and that's that.
Jet bridge time.
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The jet bridge smells faintly metallic, like cold air and machinery. I glance out one of the little porthole windows as I walk.
Plane wing: check.
Grey tarmac: check.
Heat shimmer from the engine: check.
It's… a plane. Exactly what you expect when you're boarding one.
No golden sunset lighting up the clouds. No double rainbow over the runway. Just grey.
I step into the cabin, the blast of recycled air hitting me instantly. The flight attendant greets me with a bright "Welcome aboard," and I give her the standard "polite passenger nod" in return.
I don't even glance back at the jet bridge. Bangkok's already behind me.
---
I find my seat—window, thankfully—and shove my backpack under the seat in front of me. The guy next to me is wearing headphones so big they look like satellite dishes. Good. That means we probably won't be chatting.
The seatbelt buckle is slightly warm from the last passenger. Not my favorite feeling, but whatever.
I check my phone again. Still no messages from anyone. I mean, who would be messaging me? I've been drifting for almost a year. My friends back home probably assume I've joined a cult by now.
The cabin fills up slowly. People are doing the usual boarding shuffle—standing in the aisle while trying to jam suitcases into overhead bins clearly designed for much smaller suitcases. The flight attendants do their "please step aside" routine without losing their smiles, which is honestly impressive.
Finally, the last stragglers are in.
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The cabin door closes with that hollow clunk.
For some reason, I notice it more than usual. Maybe because it's the last sound from the outside world I'll hear for the next few hours. Or maybe because it's… final.
I can't really explain it, but in that second, it's like the air shifts.
I brush it off. It's just another flight.
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Thing is…
If this were a story, I'd be suspicious of myself right now. Routine flights are never routine in stories. You know the trope—character boards plane, thinks about how "nothing could possibly happen," and then boom: turbulence, lightning strike, alternate dimension, mysterious glowing passenger in seat 14B, whatever.
But this isn't a story. This is just my life.
And my life has been weirdly uneventful lately.
Almost… too uneventful.
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We start moving, the engines humming low and steady. The safety demonstration begins, but I tune it out—I could probably recite it by heart at this point. The guy next to me is already watching a movie. How does he even have the in-flight entertainment loaded before takeoff?
I rest my head against the window. Outside, the grey sky presses down on everything, the kind of light that makes you feel like it's still early morning no matter the actual time.
The runway stretches ahead, heat haze blurring the edges.
The Thought
I should feel something, right? Excitement to be heading somewhere new? Melancholy about leaving Bangkok? Anticipation for… something?
But no.
It's just another departure.
It's been like this for a while—this… flatness. Not exactly boredom, not exactly sadness. More like I've been running for so long that stopping doesn't even feel like an option anymore.
The pilot's voice crackles through the speakers:
> "Cabin crew, please take your seats for takeoff."
I close my eyes.
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And that's how it begins.
No lightning strike.
No mysterious text.
No gut feeling screaming at me to "turn back."
Just me, a grey sky, and a plane heading toward Narita.
If only I knew what was waiting.
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