Terminal 3

The song playing in my ears catches my attention for a moment. Somehow familiar — and yet just slightly beyond recognition. This playlist was supposed to be what I’d listen to on the flight, but of course, I grew too impatient after security.

I take yet another look at my boarding pass peeking out from inside my passport, clammy against my palm; even though it’s pretty cold in the terminal, actually. In my head I’m imagining myself flipping through my papers, the ones I’d flipped through at least ten times with Mum and Dad, and then seven other times on my own, hoping there wasn’t something I’d forgotten.

I’m yanked back to reality as a tallish figure in a trenchcoat bumps into me. I mumble back a small “excuse me, I’m sorry”, though neither of us look each other in the eye — and the only thing I can hear is the synth and vocals, going

“Je t’avais dit, ne regarde pas en arrière. 

“Le passé qui te suit, te fait la guerre.”

Trying my best not to stare, I notice somebody walking past me with a paper bag in one hand and a muffin in the other. I sigh. The wallet pressing against my leg, begging for fresh air, may be strapped with cash; but it’s nothing that I could use here.

A boarding pass for a sixteen hour flight, three suitcases that stow away just about all of my important belongings — and still broke, going hungry. It’s like I’m still a student.

I catch myself whining. I walk over as a couple slowly vacate their seats and fill up both; me and my backpack. A few seats down in the row ahead of me someone’s playing Mario Kart. 

It’s a welcome change from the sight of everyone craned over their phones, absolutely frozen except for their one dominant thumb.

My own phone grumbles, as though reading my thoughts. I ignore it. I have about an hour left; and as I come to that realization, I let the clock on the wall go out of focus.

The song changes.

I’ve always taken some pride in being able to travel light. Something from dad that’s rubbed off on me, no doubt. A few years ago, still a student, I’d called it an exercise of both minimalism and self-reliance; carry too much and you no longer can take it all with you, I wrote in my diary back then.

But well; I’m sitting now with the realisation that everything I own right now amounts to a hundred and fifty liters — lesser, in fact — with the tiniest of wishes that I’d had more to my name.

A balding man takes the seat beside my bag. He’s on the phone too, arm stretched out like he was on a video call. In the corner of my eye I see a toddler grinning from end to end, and as I silently turn a little to acknowledge the man beside me, I see he’s wrinkled up in the same sort of grin, too.

The old man is loud. I hear him over my noise-cancelling headphones, even, and find myself struggling not to raise an eyebrow. As I steel myself preparing to tell him off, however, I stop — finding something familiar in the sounds, the shape of the words, the cadence…

For a moment there I might as well have been back home.

“I’ve got something special for you! Can you guess?”

“Lego!” the little boy cries out excitedly. Behind him, another figure, most probably the boy’s father, looks a little concerned.

The grandfather laughs. It’s an extremely raucous laugh that rings through my body. “Secret! You better come see me at the airport, okay? Or I’m giving it to the nicest boy I meet on the flight!” There’s a little paper bag from WHSmith by the old man’s feet.

I stare down at my own shoes. Mum insisted I dust it off and put some polish on it; only I’d knowingly forgotten that part.

The old man laughs again, but now it’s drowned by Chino Moreno’s screaming as I realize my playlist’s finally reached Deftones.

“Shove it, shove it, shove it!”

Suddenly I’m back in the car, half past one in the middle of the night — I can feel myself swaying, edge of my lips strained from all the screaming and laughing from earlier; I barely recognize the two figures sitting on either side, but hear both of them roaring, as the seat shakes from all the headbanging— 

From up ahead, I hear yelling: “Bro, shut up!” 

I sit up with a start. It’s all quiet. I don’t hear my neighbor, the guffawing granddad. Oh, God, did I say that last part out loud?

I hadn’t. The old man had just gotten up and left. 

And I hadn’t noticed.

Shame. There could’ve been a nice, fun conversation there, even; the two of us. I’d missed my chance. I would’ve thought we were on the same flight. Guess not. 

I find myself wondering where he was headed. Where he’d gotten that watch. What he’d bought for his grandson. 

Nothing to do but think, I suppose.

This playlist had been my friends’ idea, actually. I’m still surprised we all put together enough to last a full seventeen hours. One last goodbye from everyone. Of course, my morning today had been filled to the brim with hugs over text and the like — but after that, all was silent. Except a call here and there from Mum.

Each of us took turns, working out the best order of songs to make sure each one flowed decently well into the next. Some of these I knew, others I recognized as songs I’d been recommended but never gotten around to hearing; and even more ones I just couldn’t recognize — but well. If it was here, it had to be someone’s favourite.

Which meant it could be one of my favourites, too. Sooner or later. 

There’s an announcement on the PA system, which I see causes quite a stir amongst the crowd sitting around me. Then there’s the shuffling of feet, meaning it’s finally time to board.

I don’t get up just yet. Is there anything I’ve forgotten? I pull over my backpack on to my legs. Tug the zips and peer inside: my diaries, pens, the fluorescent purple folder with everything important; and way down, as my fingers scrape the bottom — good, it’s there. I didn’t forget it.

The one picture I got printed. Of everyone.

I’m surely going to forget the details. In spite of everything. That’s just how it’s been. It’s not the first time we’ve said our goodbyes but promised to stay in touch. My backpack is covered with stickers and keychains from all the birthdays and presents from everyone. Some of them have started to fade, lately.

But it’s proof nonetheless. That I have definitely belonged here — somewhere.

London, 2012, when Team GBR won the Gold Medal in Para-Equestrian Dressage, and everyone in the stadium stood together to sing the national anthem: I was there too. And in that moment, yes, I did belong there.

I have belonged here, too. All this while. In retrospect, it couldn’t have been clearer.

But well.

That doesn’t change the fact that I don’t, anymore.