Chapter 1 — Pre-Flight Jitters
Mia
Mia Bennett stood in the middle of her bedroom, her suitcase lying open on the neatly made bed. The soft, muted tones of her wardrobe—beige blouses, gray cardigans, and a single pair of black slacks—were folded with precision, though she hadn’t yet decided on shoes. Her travel journal sat on the nightstand, its leather cover worn smooth under years of use. She reached for it instinctively, running her fingers over the strap closure. The journal felt solid, grounding, even as her mind wavered between excitement and unease.
The idea of traveling alone had seemed exhilarating last week, when she’d booked the flight in a rare moment of impulsiveness. She had convinced herself that this trip to Paris was more than a vacation—it was a turning point, a chance to reclaim the independence she had once sacrificed so readily. But now, standing in her quiet, tidy room, the nagging whisper of doubt clawed at her thoughts. What if she was still the same hesitant, overthinking woman who had walked away from her marriage six months ago? What if this trip—the one she had framed as her bold declaration—only amplified her fears of failure?
She flipped open her journal to the first page. Her own handwriting stared back at her, deliberate and hopeful: *Find clarity. Stop running from yourself.* The words felt heavier now, a challenge she wasn’t sure she could meet. *What am I running toward?* she wondered, the question unspoken but persistent.
She exhaled sharply, shaking her head. “Enough,” she muttered. Her hand hovered over the scarves in her drawer before settling on two—one gray, one a soft blue. They seemed like safe choices, though she wasn’t sure why she cared. She tossed them into the suitcase and zipped it shut before she could second-guess herself again. On the desk, her phone buzzed with a notification. Her mother, Maggie, had sent another text.
*Safe travels, sweetheart. I know you’ll find what you’re looking for. Call me when you land. Love, Mom.*
Mia smiled faintly, though her chest tightened. Maggie had been supportive in her own way, but Mia could still feel the weight of her mother’s hope threaded through every well-meaning word. Maggie wanted her to find happiness, but her definition of happiness had always been rooted in stability, in tradition. A good marriage. A settled life. The kind of life Mia had walked away from. As much as she loved her mother, she couldn’t let that vision define her anymore.
She grabbed her suitcase and her journal, pausing briefly at the door to glance around the room. The quiet neatness of it suddenly felt stifling, as though it had been holding her in place for too long. “It’s time,” she murmured, and headed out, willing herself to focus on the noise and movement of the airport ahead. The controlled chaos of departures and arrivals, the strange mixture of routine and possibility—it was exactly what she needed.
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The airport was alive with motion. The rhythmic clatter of rolling suitcases mixed with the faint crackle of announcements over the intercom, while the hum of hurried conversations ebbed and flowed like a tide. Mia navigated the terminal with quiet determination, her flats clicking softly against the polished floor. She clutched her journal tightly, almost like a talisman, as the nervous flutter in her stomach grew harder to ignore.
During the drive to the airport, she had replayed her memories of Paris, hoping to drown out her doubts. The cobblestone streets, the warm scent of bread wafting from boulangeries, the golden light that seemed to make everything shimmer—it had all felt like an invitation back then, a promise that reinvention was always possible. She wanted to believe in that promise again, but now, under the harsh fluorescent lights of the terminal, the thought felt more tenuous, like grasping at smoke.
At the check-in counter, she handed over her passport and tried to steady her breath. The airline attendant, brisk and efficient, barely looked up as she typed on the keyboard. “Headed to Paris?” the woman asked, her tone polite but detached.
“Yes,” Mia replied, her voice steady. The word felt both foreign and thrilling as it left her mouth. Paris. The city she had fallen in love with during her semester abroad in college. The city she had dreamed of returning to, where she had sketched strangers in cafés and wandered along the Seine, believing herself capable of anything. She hadn’t been back since.
The attendant handed her a boarding pass. “Gate 14. Have a good flight.”
Mia nodded and made her way through security, her thoughts trailing back to her journal. She had scribbled a quick note while waiting in the car: *Paris will remind me who I am.* But now, standing in the crowd of travelers, she wasn’t so sure. She placed her belongings on the conveyor belt and walked through the scanner, feeling as though she were crossing some invisible threshold.
At the gate, she found a seat by the window and opened her journal. The sketches and notes she had carefully made in preparation for the trip now felt strangely fragile, as though they might crumble under the weight of her doubts. She traced her finger over a small drawing of the Eiffel Tower, then flipped to her list of goals. *Step outside your comfort zone.* Her lips quirked into a wry smile. Easier said than done.
As the boarding announcement crackled over the intercom, passengers began lining up. Mia closed her journal and slipped it into her carry-on bag, joining the queue. Around her, the hum of anticipation was palpable, a reminder that every person here was embarking on their own journey. She inhaled deeply. She could do this. She had to.
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The airplane cabin was a confined symphony of motion and sound: overhead compartments clicking open and shut, flight attendants directing passengers, the faint aroma of coffee and disinfectant hanging in the air. Mia found her seat—19A, a window seat, just as she had requested—and stowed her bag in the compartment above. She settled into the narrow seat, smoothing her scarf across her lap, and exhaled slowly. The steady hum of the engines was oddly soothing.
She turned her gaze to the window, watching the tarmac bustle below. The workers moved with rhythmic efficiency, their fluorescent vests flashing like beacons against the gray afternoon light. She allowed herself to get lost in the scene, her thoughts quieting for the first time all day.
Then, a low, familiar voice pulled her sharply back to the present.
“This can’t be right. Of all the seats…”
Her head snapped around. James.
For a moment, all she could do was stare. He looked exactly the same and yet so achingly different. His sharp features, the neatly combed dark hair, and those piercing blue eyes—it was all so familiar. But there was something in his expression, a flicker of disbelief that mirrored her own, that made him seem almost… vulnerable. He still wore the tailored suit and carried himself with the same composed efficiency, but the faint crease between his brows betrayed his unease.
“What are you…” she began, her voice catching. She wasn’t sure what she was asking—why he was here or why he was standing next to her.
He glanced at his boarding pass, then at the number above her seat. “19B,” he said, his tone clipped. “Apparently, I’m sitting here.”
Her chest tightened, and for a moment, she felt like the air had been knocked out of her. Of all the flights, of all the seats, of all the improbable coincidences—this. She stared at him, her thoughts a chaotic jumble. Why now? Why here? She had spent months trying to move forward, to leave their shared history behind. And now, that history was standing in front of her, waiting to sit down.
James raised an eyebrow, waiting for her to shift. She forced herself to move, her body stiff as she pressed against the armrest to let him pass. He slid into the seat with practiced precision, his cologne—woodsy and clean—briefly invading her space. The armrest between them suddenly felt like the thinnest of barriers. She sat ramrod straight, her hands clasped tightly in her lap, and stared resolutely ahead.
The silence between them was heavy, broken only by the rustle of James adjusting his laptop bag and the quiet murmur of passengers around them. Mia’s mind raced, her pulse pounding in her ears. She hadn’t seen him since the divorce papers were finalized. She thought she was ready to leave it all behind. So why did the sight of him make her feel like she was unraveling?
The flight attendants began their safety demonstration, their voices calm and rehearsed. Mia gripped the strap of her journal, her thumb moving in small, nervous circles over the leather. It was the only thing keeping her grounded. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw James adjust his watch—a familiar gesture that sent a pang through her chest. It was the watch she had given him on their fifth anniversary. *Time for Us.* She looked away, swallowing against the sudden tightness in her throat.
The engines roared as the plane lifted into the sky. Mia closed her eyes and exhaled slowly, trying to focus on the steady ascent. She wasn’t just leaving home behind—she was stepping into the unknown. And now, against all odds, James was part of that. She didn’t know whether to laugh or cry.
As the plane leveled out at cruising altitude, she risked a glance at him. He was staring straight ahead, his expression unreadable. But for the briefest moment, his fingers stilled on the strap of his watch, and she thought she saw something flicker in his eyes. Regret? Uncertainty? She didn’t know. And she wasn’t sure she wanted to.
Mia looked back at the window, gripping her journal tighter. This was going to be a long flight.
