Thirty-Six Thousand Feet

We were both on a plane at the same time. I just didn't know we'd be passing each other.

Tom was in London. I was in Boston. Five hours apart, three hundred FaceTimes deep. We had a countdown app. Mine said 41 days until his birthday.

Lately, though, he'd gotten weird. Short calls. "Bad signal." Bad signal for six weeks straight, in a city with 5G on every corner.

So I did something dramatic. Booked a surprise flight for his birthday. Saved my babysitting money, told no one, packed the sweater he liked.

I landed at Heathrow at 7 AM, shaking with excitement. I texted: "Look outside your window." Just so you know, I'd planned the whole scene. The hug. The crying. The movie ending.

No reply for an hour. Then: "Wait, where are you?"

"London!!"

Long pause. Then: "I'm in Boston."

I thought he was joking. He sent a photo of the airport arrivals board at Logan. He'd booked his flight the same day as mine. The same week. We'd crossed the Atlantic in opposite directions, probably at the same altitude, probably passing each other in the dark.

Why was he coming? I asked.

He typed for what felt like forever.

"I wanted to end it in person. You deserved that."

I sat on the floor of Heathrow, holding a sweater he'd never wear.

He crossed an ocean to say goodbye properly.

I crossed it to say hello.