Entangled Hearts

Chapter 1 : Airport Trouble

Running in one-inch block heels would probably be easy for most women, but not for me. My feet screamed with every step, aching from the pressure of my lack of heel-walking skills and my malfunctioning hand luggage. It was missing a wheel and left a trail of scuff marks on the pristine airport floor, as I frantically made my way to baggage claim. Unlike those around me leisurely carrying beach gear or shopping bags, I wasn't in Sicilia for a relaxing vacation. No, this trip was way more serious than that.

I tried to stay positive, reminding myself that it would all be worth it in the end. But as I fast-walked toward baggage claim, only to find the rusty conveyor belt at a standstill, my patience wore thin. I huffed in exasperation and dragged my tortured feet as I went to stand with the other passengers. My bright red block heels, scuffed and old-fashioned due to years in the attic, stood out among all the other travelers' comfortable shoes. With my mama's voice on replay in my head, urging me to dress to impress even while traveling, si why I found myself in these impractical yet "stylish" shoes, enduring discomfort and potential blisters. All just to match my crimson-dotted maxi dress.

"First a three-hour late flight and now this?" I grumbled in frustration, seeking solidarity from fellow travelers. To my relief, I received nods and approving looks that slightly lifted my mood.

Feeling desperate, I squeezed my way toward the front of the carousel, careful not to bump anyone's cart but making sure there was space for me to keep watch. Finally, after what felt like an eternity, the conveyor belt began to move. A collective sigh of relief escaped from the passengers as we eagerly awaited our bags. As the first few suitcases came tumbling down the chute, I strained my eyes in hopes of catching a glimpse of my own. More and more bags made their appearance, none which was mine. I waited and waited. Almost everyone else from my flight had left by now, leaving only an elderly couple beside me, who looked just as exasperated as I felt.

The clock on the wall seemed to taunt me with its incessant ticking as I stood, my eyes fixating on the opening where my bag should have appeared. But after even the elderly couple got their bags and the machine stopped, it became clear that my bag was not going to show up.

I marched over to one of the workers, telling myself to not hold back. The lady was tall and beautiful, probably in her early-twenties, but she seemed lost in her own thoughts as she stared into the distance. I approached her, and she glared at me with a mixture of annoyance and confusion. Her makeup highlighted her gray eyes with smokey shades, resembling a sassy cat, ready to pounce. I attempted to convey my frustration and attitude by shooting a fierce glare back. But with my dull brown eyes and no makeup-face, I doubted they had the same effect. Letting go of my alter-ego, I asked her about my missing bag. She made a quick phone call and engaged in discussions with other workers before turning back to me with an irritatingly high-pitched voice, "scusi, Signorina, but we do not have your baggage." The first signs of irritation surfaced on my face, and my stress levels soared. I felt any remaining positivity drain out of me.

"What do you mean? Where is it?" I asked, already anticipating useless answers. She continued rambling, giving me theories about where it might be and reassuring me that they would try to find it as soon as possible. With indifference dripping from every word, she handed me a piece of paper to write down my hotel information.

"No problema, your insurance will probably cover dis Fat...uh, Fatima," she said casually, stumbling over my name. Little did she know, this trip was funded by the last of my family's savings; there was no insurance. I scribbled my name, number, and hotel address on the paper as quickly as my hand could move. She took a look at it, forced a smile, and apologized in that way only staffers could-fake, but still trying to be believable. I, for one, did not believe a word she said. But before I could stress my need for the bag, she strutted away. I took a deep upset breath, trying to recenter myself: Calm down, this is out of your control.