Stories by Preetam

Part 2: Almost Missed It

Four hours. Famous last words.

By the time I boarded the flight out of India, I had already exhausted most of my lifetime flight experience.

Which isn’t saying much.

My relationship with airplanes has mostly been short, functional one–to–two-hour hops where the seatbelt sign barely switches off before the landing announcement politely asks you to sit back down again. Blink-and-you’re-there journeys. Efficient. Forgettable. Emotionally neutral.

Except, of course, for the legendary late Lateef Indigo incident.

That one deserves its own museum wing.

I once waited almost an entire day for a flight that kept getting delayed with the confidence of someone who had no intention of showing up. Every few hours, a fresh apology. A fresh estimated time. Fresh hope. Fresh disappointment. And finally, the grand finale: cancelled.

The sad demise of a perfectly good travel plan.

So when I say I hadn’t really experienced a long flight before, what I mean is: I had either flown briefly or suffered extensively. Nothing in between.

This one was different. Proper long. Hours of floating over countries I couldn’t pronounce even in my head. Time zones quietly shifting while my body pretended nothing was happening.

I settled into my seat with the seriousness of someone embarking on an expedition. Adjusted the screen. Found the charging port. Mentally prepared for the existential boredom that comes with being suspended in metal over the planet for half a day.

And then the universe decided to test my imagination.

A very pretty woman took the seat next to me.

Immediately, a tiny production studio inside my brain went into full casting mode.

This was clearly my moment to audition for an alternate version of myself. The smoother one. The confident one. The one who introduces himself without mentally rehearsing every sentence like it’s a viva exam.

In my head, I became James Bond. Casual. Charming. Effortlessly interesting. I imagined the opening line. Revised it. Rejected it. Tried a second version. Rejected that too. Somewhere between versions four and five, I realized I was never making it to the auditions.

Reality intervened gently.

She smiled at her phone. I accidentally noticed a couple photo. The kind where two people look stupid-happy for no practical reason. Comfortable. Familiar. Very clearly not available for fictional spy conversations.

There was a brief flicker of FOMO. The soft kind. The kind that doesn’t hurt, just reminds you that certain chapters are currently not open for reading.

My brain did what it usually does when it notices unnecessary emotional turbulence.

Okay. Moving on.

Being single has its perks too.

For one, nobody questions your snack choices. Nobody steals your armrest. Nobody judges the strange documentary you suddenly decide to watch at 3 a.m. local time for no identifiable reason.

Also, air hostesses are incredibly nice.

Warm smiles. Polite conversations. That rare sensation of being spoken to kindly without emotional subtext or complicated expectations. These days, people being nice without any ulterior motive feels like spotting a unicorn in business casual.

Of course, five minutes later, I realized their ulterior motive was simply to sell me things at six times the original price with excellent manners.

Capitalism with dimples.

Still, credit where due, the headphones were free. That alone felt like a small miracle in an environment where even water sometimes behaves like it was sourced directly from a sacred glacier and filtered through ancient wisdom.

I settled into the movie, half entertained, half disoriented by the strange elastic nature of long-haul time. You sleep for what feels like a nap and wake up in a different timezone wondering what year it is.

Eventually, we landed in Kuala Lumpur.

Layover time: four hours.

Four hours felt generous. Luxurious, even. The kind of time that invites irresponsible relaxation. My brain immediately categorized it as plenty. Abundant. Excessive. Something you could safely stop monitoring.

Which, in hindsight, was the first mistake.

The airport felt like a small city pretending to be organized. Bright floors. Endless walkways. Shops selling things nobody actually needs but everyone briefly considers. People moving in every direction with the calm urgency of those who know exactly where they’re going, or are pretending very well.

I put my earphones back in and slipped into my own bubble.

Rewrite the Stars started playing.

Which felt appropriate at the time. Dramatic. Cinematic. A little hopeful. I was mentally rewriting imaginary futures while physically wandering through a terminal that smelled faintly of coffee, perfume, and existential transit fatigue.

In hindsight, listening to a song about rewriting destiny while unknowingly attempting to rewrite my own itinerary was not my smartest alignment strategy.

I walked. I explored. I admired shops I had no intention of buying from. Some food stalls looked comfortingly close to home. Familiar spices. Familiar colors. Others felt delightfully foreign. Strange names. Ingredients that sounded like they belonged in fantasy novels.

The language around me sounded like something I should almost understand. Like if I leaned in slightly harder, meaning would magically unlock itself.

So I leaned in.

Listened carefully.

Absolutely nothing happened.

Okay. That’s not how languages work. Noted.

Eventually, hunger announced itself with the confidence of someone who had been ignored for too long. I spotted a food place that looked harmless. Clean. Bright. Trustworthy. The kind of place that quietly encourages bad decisions.

I checked the time.

Plenty of it.

I ordered something that resembled noodles. Or rice. Or a philosophical experiment. Hard to tell. The menu and I negotiated respectfully but unsuccessfully.

While waiting, I noticed the price.

Airport pricing is a fascinating psychological experiment. They take something that costs the emotional equivalent of a coin outside and charge you like they’re pouring water sourced directly from the Himalayas into your cup noodles with monk-level sincerity.

You pay anyway. Because hunger weakens principles faster than logic ever could.

Still calm. Still unbothered. Still convinced I had time.

Then, casually, without panic or intention, I glanced at the flight board.

And that’s when the universe stopped whispering and started shouting.

FINAL CALL.

I blinked.

Looked again.

FINAL. CALL.

My earphones were still in. My brain took a second longer than usual to process that this wasn’t abstract typography art. This was my flight preparing to leave without me.

Internal system crash.

Oh.

Oh no.

Why am I like this?

Why did I think four hours was infinite?

Why did I trust time so blindly like an emotionally unavailable situationship?

My body switched modes before my brain finished complaining.

Food abandoned. Bag adjusted. Passport suddenly clutched like a sacred artifact.

I power-walked. Then upgraded to a socially awkward jog. The kind where you’re trying not to look like you’re running while very clearly running.

Every moving walkway felt insultingly slow. Every sign felt intentionally vague. The gate numbers started behaving like riddles.

When I finally spotted the counter, I approached with the dignity of someone who had completely lost control of the situation.

Breathless. Slightly panicked. Politely desperate.

I don’t remember the exact words. There was probably a combination of hand gestures, wide eyes, and a universal human expression that says please don’t let my poor life choices become permanent consequences.

They looked at the screen.

Looked at me.

Paused.

That pause deserves its own paragraph.

Then they let me through.

Relief hit like a delayed wave. The kind that makes your knees feel mildly philosophical about gravity.

I walked onto the aircraft trying to appear composed, like this was all part of the plan. Found my seat. Sat down. Exhaled properly for the first time in what felt like an entire lifetime.

My heartbeat slowly negotiated a truce with reality.

A quiet laugh escaped me. The kind you make when your nervous system finally realizes it survived.

Four hours.

I had genuinely believed four hours was a lot of time.

Turns out, it’s barely enough when you stop paying attention.

I loosened my grip on the passport. Adjusted the seatbelt. Let the adrenaline drain out of my shoulders.

That’s when someone spoke.

“Hey Sam. Long time.”

My brain didn’t respond immediately.

Not because I didn’t hear it.
Because I didn’t expect reality to suddenly address me by name in the middle of a delayed nervous breakdown.

I turned slowly.

And immediately forgot how facial muscles work.

Same face. Same eyes. Same familiar presence that absolutely did not belong in this moment, in this city, on this almost-missed flight.

For a second, my mind went blank in a very specific way. The kind where all thoughts step outside the room and lock the door behind them.

Say something.
Any word would be nice.
Preferably human.

Nothing came out.

She tilted her head slightly, amused. Like she had just walked into a paused scene.

I finally managed to blink.

Looked again.

Still there.

Okay. Either this is a very detailed hallucination, or my nervous system has finally resigned from active duty.

“This… this can’t be real,” I muttered.

I leaned in slightly, squinting like that would help reality render itself properly.

“Sakshi?”

The name sounded unfamiliar in my own mouth after so long.

Without warning, she pinched my arm.

Hard.

I winced.

Right. Definitely not a dream.

I stared at her, half-laughing, half-stunned, still trying to catch up with the moment.

“Am I dreaming?” I asked, genuinely unsure.

She smiled.

Just a few hours ago, I was silently experiencing FOMO watching a stranger smile at someone she loved.

And now, life had casually dropped someone from a completely different chapter into the seat next to me.

Whether this was a gift or just the universe messing with my sense of timing again, I honestly had no idea.

Either way, this flight had officially stopped behaving like a normal day.

Life has a funny way of happening while you’re busy making other perfectly stupid plans.