Long Distance Call | tayley ✓

27 | Flying Solo

[Hayley]

This is the first flight I've ever flown solo on. I've been in airplanes several times before, but never alone. So all of this is both exciting as well as nerve-wracking.

I attempt to place my large bag into the overhead passage, though my height becomes the reason I struggle so much with it. Someone stands from their seat, assisting me in placing the bag in its spot. I give the girl a smile and look down to see that she's sitting right next to me. Well, look how convenient this is.

I take a seat beside the girl, her radiant smile causing a smile of my own to form.

"I'm Baylie," she introduces herself, extending her hand towards me. I take it into my own, giving her hand a quick shake.

"I'm Hayley," I say with a nod, her bright smile still sitting proudly upon her lips. Quite a beautiful smile, I must say. Well, it's great that this Baylie girl isn't a pain in the ass, or else that'd make for one hell of a trip, huh?

"Why're you going?" she asks, obviously attempting to make small talk. I'm not the best when it comes to small talk. Actually, I'm really not the best at any sort of talking. But that's beside the point.

"Seeing a friend of mine," I simply state, not wanting to bore this sweet stranger with the details.

"Really? Me too, actually. Surprising him," she expresses.

"Aw, that's really sweet," I say with a smile.

After what feels like an eternity, the flight finally lifts off. It took so long due to one of the passengers getting a little too angry at one of the stewardesses. She had simply told him that we'd be lifting off soon and that they'd start giving us snacks sometime after takeoff. It took a little while to calm the man, which only delayed his snack time. But I wasn't complaining much. It was a bit entertaining.

I pull my carry-on bag from the place I had been instructed to leave it, underneath the seat in front of me. I only pull out two items. Those two items are a spiral notebook filled with ideas for half-assed stories, shitty poetry, and drawings that I like to pretend are even decent at best. And the second item of the two being a pen.

Flipping through the mess of a notebook, I find a clean sheet of the lined paper. It takes a moment of thinking until I'm actually able to formulate something even decent to write. But I'm in a happy mood. I sort of want to write some sort of poetry, even though I find myself to struggle with all sorts of poetry when I'm actually happy. You ever realize that? How it seems so much easier to write feelings down and make your work relatable and true when you feel like you're breaking inside? Okay, I need to stop being so emo. But on another note, I come up with the first few lines of this fresh poem of mine.

It's really hard
I can't cry in your arms
Because you're not here
It's not your fault
And if it was I wouldn't care.

Truthfully, I'm not even sure what I'm writing about. This is how I am with all poetry of mine, though. I try to write and make it sound good, but I get off-topic and go all over the place. That is exactly what I'm doing now and I need to stop.

But I know I'm writing about Taylor. It's kind of dumb, the way he makes me feel. How he already drives me as absolutely wild as he does. But it's a good kind of wild, does that make any sense? Like, I'm okay with the fact that I can't even control myself whenever I see a photo of him or when I text him. But when I hear his voice, oh my god, it's like the entire world stops and my heart does too.

I continue writing, adding more scribbled, poorly written words to the sheet of paper.

My heart is bigger
Than the distance
In between us.
I know it 'cause I
Feel it beating.

Once I jot those words down, I chew on the end of my pen, which is a terrible habit of mine. Out of the corner of my eye, it almost appears as though the girl sitting beside me is glancing at my paper every now and then. What was her name, again? Baylie? Brittany? Yeah, I think it might have been Brittany. Whatever, doubt I'll ever need to remember her name or come across her ever again.

I could ask her what she thinks of the poetry I have so far come up with, but I'm shy when it comes to sharing my work. I find all forms of writing an art-form, and I feel so vulnerable when I share my work.

That's why I struggled so much in school. They would tell us to write something meaningful, and then when we did, we would be forced to stand in front of the entire class and recite the entire thing. Having social anxiety makes even speaking a struggle, but when you have anxiety and are forced to share something you're insecure about, it's the worst. I would always shake and mumble which would sometimes result in my teachers requesting for me to start over, but speak louder. I would always feel my entire face go red, and I would always feel as though I was about to pass right out. Weirdly, I sometimes wished I could just pass out on the spot. I hoped that it would help the teachers realize I didn't like sharing my shit.

Okay, look at me. Getting off-topic again. What's new about that?

Suddenly, it's like an entire wave, no, more like a tsunami, of fatigue hits me. I place the items that had just resided in my lap back into the backpack I chose as a carry-on. Luckily, I had the window seat - thanks Taylor. So I rest my head against the window, allowing my eyes to slip shut. It doesn't take much longer for me to fall asleep.