Chapter 2 — Turbulence and Familiarity

James

James Bennett leaned back against the stiff airplane seat, his fingers absently brushing the leather strap of his watch. The familiar weight of it grounded him, though the irony wasn’t lost on him. *Time for Us.* The inscription on the back felt like a cruel joke now, yet here he was, still wearing it. He told himself it was practical—slim, elegant, reliable—but the truth was more complicated. He couldn’t bring himself to stop wearing it. Not yet.

And now, of all the flights, on all the days, in all the improbable configurations of fate, she had to be seated beside him.

Amelia—Mia—was here.

Her auburn hair was tied back, the loose waves gathered into a ponytail that left her face exposed. He knew her well enough to recognize the gesture for what it was: stress. She was staring at the safety card in the seat pocket, her green eyes darting over the instructions as if memorizing them could somehow anchor her. She’d flown countless times before, and yet here she was, gripping that card with the same white-knuckled determination he remembered from years ago.

The faint crow’s feet at the corners of her eyes caught his attention. He used to tease her about them, calling them proof of her laughter. Now, they seemed deeper, etched with something heavier. Worry, perhaps. Time. Time without him.

James tightened his grip on the armrest, the leather cool under his palm. He wanted to say something, anything, to break the oppressive silence. To acknowledge her presence, or the fact that they were sharing this impossible, surreal moment. But what could he say? *Sorry for sitting here? Sorry for everything?* Even the thought of speaking felt like stepping onto a minefield.

Mia shifted in her seat, her knee brushing against his. She pulled back quickly, muttering, “Sorry,” without looking at him.

“It’s fine,” he replied, his voice sharper than he’d intended. He winced internally, the clipped tone betraying the storm brewing inside him.

His gaze fell to her hands resting on her lap, her fingers gripping that journal. The same one she’d had on lazy Sunday mornings, sitting at the kitchen table with a mug of coffee while he worked on blueprints or sketches. He’d never asked what she wrote or drew in it, and she never offered to share. Now, he wondered if he should have. Maybe if he’d taken the time to look up from his work, to ask, to care, things would have been different.

The silence between them stretched on, taut and brittle. James turned his head to the window, where the clouds outside smeared the horizon in muted grays. He could feel her presence like a gravitational pull, her every small movement drawing his attention despite himself. Each breath she took was a reminder of what they once shared—and what they’d lost.

“Small world,” he finally said, his voice breaking the quiet but not the tension.

Mia turned her head just enough to glance at him, her lips twisting into something that wasn’t quite a smile. “Too small.”

Her tone was light, but the edge beneath it cut deep. Humor as a shield—he recognized it instantly. It was a habit of hers, one that used to make him laugh, even when he knew she was deflecting. Now, it just left him feeling hollow. He wanted to call her on it, to push past the surface. But wasn’t that part of the problem? Their history was riddled with missed chances to dig deeper, to ask the harder questions.

The plane jolted suddenly, a shudder that rippled through the cabin. The captain’s voice crackled over the intercom, announcing turbulence ahead and advising passengers to fasten their seatbelts. James instinctively glanced at Mia.

Her knuckles were white against the armrest, her breathing quick and shallow. She was trying to hold herself together, but he could see the telltale signs—the rigid set of her shoulders, the way her eyes darted to the window and then back to the seat in front of her. She hated turbulence, always had.

“You’re still not a fan of flying,” he said softly, his voice careful, measured.

Her eyes snapped to his, sharp and defensive. “I’m fine. It’s just turbulence.”

He didn’t push, but he knew better. He’d held her hand through countless flights, feeling her nails dig into his palm with every bump and jolt. He hesitated for a moment, then reached out, his fingers brushing against hers on the armrest.

Mia flinched slightly at the contact, her gaze flicking to his hand. For a moment, he thought she might pull away, but she didn’t. Slowly, cautiously, her fingers relaxed under his.

“It’s just air pockets,” he said, his voice low and steady. “The plane’s designed for this. We’re not going anywhere.”

She let out a shaky breath, though her eyes stayed trained on the seatback in front of her. “You sound like you’ve been practicing that line.”

His mouth quirked into a faint, self-deprecating smile. “Maybe I have.”

The plane rocked again, and her grip on his hand tightened. The sensation was startlingly familiar, like muscle memory waking up after a long sleep. For a fleeting moment, it felt like nothing had changed—that they were still the couple who held each other through life’s turbulence, both literal and metaphorical.

When the shaking finally subsided, Mia released his hand slowly, almost reluctantly. She exhaled a long breath, her shoulders easing down just a fraction. “Thanks,” she murmured, her voice barely audible over the hum of the engines.

James nodded, unsure what to do with the sudden emptiness in his palm. He wanted to say something meaningful, to use the moment to bridge the chasm between them. Instead, he said, “You’re welcome.” The words felt inadequate, but he didn’t know how to offer more.

The cabin quieted, the tension in the air shifting into something softer, quieter. James leaned back in his seat, his fingers brushing the face of his watch. He thought of the moment she’d given it to him—how proud she’d been of the engraving, how he’d laughed and kissed her, promising to always make time for them. That promise felt like a lifetime ago.

He glanced at her again. She was staring out the window, her profile illuminated by the faint glow of the in-flight entertainment screen. She looked tired—not just physically, but in a way that ran deeper, like she was carrying the weight of something too heavy to name.

“Mia,” he began, the word catching in his throat.

She turned to him, her expression guarded. “What?”

He opened his mouth, but the words lodged in his chest. What could he even say? That he missed her? That he’d spent months replaying every argument, every moment he wished he could undo? That he wasn’t ready to let go of her, even now?

“Nothing,” he said finally, his voice tight with frustration—at himself, at the impossibility of the moment.

Mia’s lips pressed into a thin line, and she turned back to the window. But just before she looked away, he caught a flicker of something in her eyes—hesitation, maybe. Or was it vulnerability?

James let his head fall against the seat, closing his eyes. The plane might have leveled out, but inside, he was still caught in the turbulence, tossed between who he had been and who he wanted to be. He didn’t know how to fix what had been broken—or if it was even possible. But as the minutes ticked by, the steady rhythm of the watch on his wrist, he knew one thing for certain: he wasn’t ready to give up hope. Not yet.