Prologue

PROLOGUE

I sit slouched in one of those uncomfortable airport chairs, one leg tucked beneath me, the other tapping against the floor in rhythm with my restless thoughts. The noise around me is the usual airport chaos—flight announcements, people rushing past—but somehow, it feels like I’m standing still in the middle of it all.

My backpack, faded and beaten up from too many trips, is slumped next to me. It's barely filled, just a few things inside, but it feels heavy—like it’s carrying more than just my belongings. I pick at the frayed edges of my hoodie sleeve, glancing out the huge windows where planes take off and land without a care that mine isn’t going anywhere yet.

I can see my reflection in the glass: dark hair tied back in a messy knot, pieces slipping out to frame my tired face. My eyes look older than they should, like they’ve seen too much, though I’m dressed simply in jeans, a t-shirt, and a pair of sneakers that have been through hell with me. No makeup, no jewelry—just the basics.

Inside my backpack, there’s not much: a notebook, a single pen, and a dog-eared book of poems I can’t seem to let go of. I don’t need a lot. I’m traveling light on purpose, leaving behind what doesn’t fit, what I can’t carry with me anymore.

The crackle of the loudspeaker makes me wince, and I already know what’s coming before the announcement even finishes. “Flight 322 to New Orleans has been delayed by an additional two hours.” The words hang in the air like a lead weight. I let out an audible sigh, slumping further into the chair as frustration bubbles up inside me. Great. Just what I needed. More time in this limbo, stuck here when all I want is to be anywhere else.

I rub my face, trying to will away the tiredness creeping in from hours of waiting. My eyes feel heavy, my patience worn thin. I shift in my seat, staring down at my worn sneakers, counting the flecks of dirt like they might offer me some comfort. They don’t.

Suddenly, someone drops into the seat beside me. I glance over out of reflex and find myself looking at a woman. A total stranger. She’s about my age, maybe a little older. Dressed casually with her hair pulled back in a loose braid, she looks just as tired as I feel, though she smiles faintly at me, like she’s trying to make the best of this miserable situation.

“Long day?” she asks, her voice soft but friendly.

I can’t help but let out a short, humorless laugh. “You could say that,” I mutter, turning back toward the window.

I don’t really feel like talking, not to her, not to anyone. But for some reason, I don’t get up and leave either. Maybe because I’m too tired to move, or maybe because her presence is oddly calming. It’s strange how just having someone sit beside you, even a stranger, can make the waiting feel a little less unbearable.

She doesn’t push me to talk, and I’m grateful for that. We sit there in silence, two tired souls stuck in the same nowhere place, waiting for the next thing, whatever that is. I close my eyes for a moment, letting the sounds of the airport fade into the background, and wonder what I’ll do with all this extra time.

I sit up a bit straighter as I try to shake off the frustration. The woman beside me glances over, a smile pulling at the corners of her lips like she’s seen this all before. She waits a beat before speaking, her voice low and warm.

“Days are just stories, you know,” she says, her eyes fixed somewhere ahead, almost like she’s talking to the air. “It’s up to us how we tell them.”

I blink, surprised by the unexpected wisdom in her words. I wasn’t expecting that from a stranger in an airport, but there it is—simple yet somehow profound. I find myself chewing on the thought, letting it settle into the corners of my mind. Days are just stories. Stories I can shape. The idea twists inside me, softening the edges of my frustration just a little.

She turns her head, her gaze settling on me with a soft curiosity. “Tell me your story,” she says gently.

I pause, caught off guard by the question. My story? The words don’t come easily. I think about the last few years—about the pain, the problems, the running, all the things I’ve faced that feel too big and too tangled to put into words. The memories surge like a tide: the broken relationships, the sleepless nights, the moments when everything felt like it was falling apart.

I start to speak, stumbling over the words, my voice faltering under the weight of it all. But before I can get too far, she lifts her hand to stop me.

“See,” she says, “I’m asking for your story. Tell it how you want. Rewrite it. I’m a stranger. You can tell it to me any way you want, and that’s all I will know.”

Her words hit me like a spark, igniting something inside. Rewrite it. Just like that. As if it’s that simple. I look at her, trying to figure out if she’s serious, but she is. And for a moment, the idea of rewriting my story—not just telling the past but shaping it, choosing what to hold on to and what to let go of—feels almost...possible.

I sit back in the chair, thinking it over. Maybe, just maybe, she's right. Maybe it’s time to tell the story differently.

She doesn’t push. She just sits there, watching the busy terminal like she has all the time in the world. There’s a peaceful patience about her, like she knows exactly when to speak and when to let the silence do the work. And it does work. The longer the quiet stretches between us, the more her words start to sink in.

Rewrite it.

Finally, after what feels like an eternity, she turns to me again. “Tell me your story,” she repeats, her voice gentle but insistent. There’s no pressure in it, just a soft invitation.

I swallow hard, glancing down at my hands. I can feel the weight of her question pressing against my chest, but this time, it’s different. She’s not asking for the version I’ve been telling myself—the one filled with pain and mistakes. She’s asking for my story, the one I want to tell.

I hesitate for just a second longer, then take a deep breath. Maybe it doesn’t have to be so hard. Maybe, for once, I can choose what to say, and let everything else fade into the background.

I look up, meeting her eyes. “My story,” I begin, this time more steady, “is still being written. But it started in a small suburb in New York—Westchester, actually.” I pause, feeling the memories tug at me, but I choose to let the lighter ones come forward. “It was the kind of place where you could hear the ice cream truck two streets over in the summer, where everyone knew everyone. My childhood was...safe, I guess. Familiar.”

I glance at the woman beside me. She’s watching me with an encouraging smile, like she’s waiting for me to find the rhythm. And I do. The words start to come a little easier now.

“But, you know, safety has a way of feeling small after a while. I wanted more. I craved something bigger, something louder. So I started writing poetry in high school—scribbling lines in the margins of my notebooks and performing at open mics whenever I could sneak away from suburbia. It became my way out, my escape hatch into a world that was wider and filled with possibilities.”

I can feel the energy shifting inside me, the words flowing more naturally. I sit up a little straighter, feeling the pulse of something more vibrant, more alive.

“After college, I moved to the city for a while. Manhattan. It was thrilling, overwhelming, and everything I’d hoped for and more. But life has a way of shifting on you, you know? What starts out as a dream sometimes twists into something else. I got a little lost in it, in the noise, in the pressure to always be ‘on.’ I kept running, trying to find the right place, the right people, but nothing really stuck. It was like I was chasing shadows.”

I stop for a breath, a small smile tugging at my lips as I think about where I’m heading next.

“And now... Now I’m heading to New Orleans. Not just for a fresh start but because I think it’s where I’m supposed to be. It feels right, like there’s something waiting for me there. I don’t know exactly what it is yet, but I’m ready for it. Ready to let the next chapter write itself one day at a time.”

I glance over at her, feeling lighter somehow, as if saying it out loud has made it more real. She nods slowly, her smile deepening as if she’s pleased with what I’ve shared.

“Well,” she says softly, “sounds like you’ve got quite a story ahead of you.”

“Let’s hope it is a good one.” I smile.

The airport intercom crackles. “Flight 322 to New Orleans is now available for boarding.”