I hate airports. Melbourne International at 5:30 AM has all the charm of a morgue that Kafka would write of. Fluorescent lighting that feels more like a 7Eleven at 3am, overpriced caffeine distribution centres masquerading as cafes, and enough competing PA announcements to trigger anyone’s mania(1). We could've been sipping something bubbly in the business lounge, but Amy said “business class was for wankers”. Her words. Not mine. Something about “upper class nonsense” and “paying extra for the illusion of grandiose”.
I’d made the argument—weakly, yes, but still—that I had points to burn and a human need to drink champagne like it’s going out of fashion. She scoffed. Said it would turn us into the kind of people who name their kid something like “Sophie-Mae Appil Belle-Kensington”. I didn’t get the logic, but the verdict was final: no business class, no champagne, no comfort. And so instead of a glass of Dom and a plush recliner, I'm elbow-deep in a sticky food court table next to a juice bar that charges by the millilitre.
Sitting across from me, elbows perched on said laminated table, Amy scrolls endlessly on her phone. Gorgeous Amy. Even under the harsh glare of the airport lighting, her beauty remains annoyingly effortless—bright green eyes framed by dark lashes, freckles scattered like punctuation across her nose, hair pulled into one of those annoyingly neat-messy buns. But something is off. Her expression is distant. Still. The kind of still that suggests something bubbling underneath. Her jaw clenches, then relaxes, like she’s reacting to a thought she won’t say aloud. She shifts in her seat every so often with a slight wince, rubbing her lower back subtly. Amy’s back pain, or what she calls her “snowboarding swan song” has been flaring up the last few days. The usual combination of not enough sleep, too much stress, and a body that’s quietly staging a mutiny against her anti-business class stance.
“You okay?” I ask, my hands clasping the worn denim at her waist—skin warm, underneath; a stark contrast to the frosty vibes she’s oozing.
She shifts slightly, eyes still on her screen. “Mm? Yeah—sorry, Jess just sent me her itinerary. She’s going to Tokyo now.”
"Good for Jess," My tone making it clear that it's absolutely not good for Jess. Jess, the perpetual traveller, always dragging Amy into her orbit. The pisshead stuck in an eternal state of arrested development…yet with more to show for her life than anything I’ve ever achieved. Amy’s trips with her always seemed more exciting. More hectic. More spontaneous. They drank espresso in alleyways in Montmartre and woke up at 5:30 for yoga in Bali. And right now- as Amy taps out another reply to Jess with such enthusiasm I’m worried she’s going to crack the screen, I feel that sick nauseating feeling of fear rise in my stomach. “Funny,” I drawl, “We’re going to Taipei. Pretty close, huh? You could probably even hop over there.”
Amy’s eyes flicker upward for a split second, her face—still blank and unreadable. Her eyes return to her phone. “Yeah,” she mumbles carelessly.
A couple next to us in matching Kathmandu vests are feeding each other sips of mango smoothie like it’s foreplay. "Babe, you have to try this. It's like—orgasmic." "No, YOU have to try this one. I swear it's better." They giggle like they're acting out their favourite romcom. I look at Amy to share the joke. She doesn’t even glance up. So, not a smoothie mood, then. Maybe this whole trip is the last supper I think to myself. A last hurrah before ‘the conversation’.
Amy reads my mind.“So…there’s been something I’ve been meaning to bring up” she says suddenly, those green eyes finally looking up; glistening in pain.
“As a general rule, that phrase is normally followed by bad news,” I reply, that burning feeling in my stomach spreading up through my chest pulsing like it is performing its manic dance.
Her face—a wry smile. Or maybe it was a grimace? “Look, I think…”
“QANTAS FLIGHT QF181 IS NOW INVITING ALL…”. Our flight announcement crackles over the PA system, the rest of the message sonic garbage. The herd of zombies jump to life and form a queue to board. I’ve never understood that. You’ve checked in. Your seat is confirmed. Why would you spend one more minute than you had to on that hell-hole? Amy suddenly jumps up, suitcase in hand, and joins the queue. She’s infected. She’s a zombie. The remaining swarm form a human tetris line behind her, eagerly awaiting relocation from one uncomfortable seat to another.
I study Amy’s face as she stands alone in line. She looks exhausted—face gaunt, posture slumped, hair tied up resembling a bird's nest. I stand up from that cold laminated table and shuffle beside her. Glares from the zombies behind me.
“What were you saying?” I enquire with confidence—my voice sounding anything but. She responds with silence, flicking through her phone for her boarding pass. She shuffles her suitcase forward and hands her phone to the middle aged flight attendant.
As we settle ourselves into our seat I torture myself with every possible ending to her unfinished sentence—imagined, of course. I think we need some individual time on this trip. Or I think I should go see Jess in Tokyo. My heart continues to palpitate: I think this isn’t working. We haven’t left the gate, yet my stomach drops like we’ve just hit unexpected turbulence. The seat next to the window is empty. Amy relocates herself without saying a word, creating a space between us that measures an eternity long. “You okay?” I ask again.
“Yeah,” she lies. Her lips smiling, her eyes not. She gestures to the empty space between us- “Extra space. Just like business class”. She turns back to her phone. I start preemptively detaching, withdrawing into the comfort of sadness. If I brace for impact, maybe it won’t hurt as much.
Economy class is not so much a class as it is a penitentiary. Amy, who normally loves people, shuffles back into her middle seat as an older gentleman rightfully takes his own. As he relaxes into his throne, his legs and arms impressively spread in sync, invading Amy. She lets out a loud sigh and starts picking at her cuticles—already the colour of grapefruit from attacking them on the taxi ride this morning. What the hell is going on!?
Amy stares straight ahead at her seat pocket, unmoving. I try to think of something light to say, but I draw a blank. Maybe this whole trip is some elaborate, passive-aggressive breakup escape where she gets to wander lantern-lit markets in Taipei while I cry into a bubble tea, my mind already drafting the pitiful screenplay of my life's complete undoing—naturally far more embarrassing than tragic. I start crafting emotional exit strategies, rehearsing mature reactions in my head that definitely don’t involve passive-aggressive Instagram captions spouting the illusion of the perfect life. Mid-flight turbulence interrupts my spiralling thoughts, causing passengers to cling to armrests and fake calamity. The overhead bins rattle ominously. Somewhere a child giggles like this is a ride. Another cries. Amy grabs my hand suddenly—fingers cold, clammy, and trembling. But underneath, her skin is warm. Still warm. Somehow, that makes it worse.(2)
"You Okay?" I try once more softly, my heart hammering harder now.
"Yeah, just...turbulence," she says, eyes briefly closing as if gathering strength. Her voice is quieter than usual, but steady.
"Thought you wanted to talk before," I say, squeezing her fingers gently, bracing myself for the inevitable emotional impact, “What have you been thinking?”
She darts her eyes over inquisitively, almost like she doesn’t know if I’m being serious. Am I testing her? Is this a trick? She lets out another sigh which morphs to a soft chuckle. “Yeah. I was just gonna say…my back is absolutely killing me. You were right…I was wrong. We really should have booked those business class seats.”
My tension drops, my stomach returns to its rightful place, and my heart remembers how to be a heart. I let out a laugh, way too loud, way too high-pitched for the public. A laugh of relief. The plane shudders once more "Done. Next time, let’s do it right."(3)
She leans her head gently on my shoulder. "Done."
The plane shudders violently. My chest finally settles.