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There is something inherently human about airports. I think it's why I'm so fond of them. Not knowing a single thing about anyone. Not their name, not their profession, not where they're headed. We're just all squeaky shoes against tile, luggage in hand with a destination in mind.
There is a story in everyone, like the guy whose sitting next to me, his slacks clinging to him with slicked back hair and his phone screen displaying a video of a newborn baby cooing. I watch a single tear slip down his cheek. Is he crying because he had to leave her behind for work? Or is he crying because he's on his way to see her for the first time? Or maybe he's crying because he's reminiscing of her time on Earth? There are so many possibilities, some more morbid than the rest.
I caress my phone, my thumb flicking through my feed aimlessly, yet my attention still lingers on my surroundings. My eyes bob back and forth between every traveller. I plant my phone face down, choosing to be more present.
Until my phone does a little dance against my thigh and I'm distracted from the moment again.
I pick it up, glance at the caller ID, and press it to my ear with a smile, "Hey, Iz."
