Shayan Afzal

The plane hummed, a soft, monotonous drone that both comforted and unnerved, as it arced over the landscape an hour north of San Francisco. My anticipation buzzed, an electric contrast to the serene views outside, a blend of excitement and a peculiar anxiety that seemed to hum in sync with the engines. This day began at 4 AM, the kind of hour that exists in a liminal space between night and morning, where the body rebels against the mere suggestion of waking. Yet, we stumbled out of bed, moving through the pre-dawn quiet, our motions automated, as if sleepwalking, towards the car and eventually towards Pearson Airport.

Pearson was unusually lively for such an early hour, a bustling hive of activity that seemed to defy the logic of time. People moved with a sense of purpose that belied the ungodly hour, their faces illuminated by the cold, artificial light of the terminal. We grabbed Subway sandwiches, a ritualistic act that provided a semblance of normalcy amidst the disorientation.

As we waited to board, I noticed three little birds flitting about inside the terminal. They moved with a freedom that seemed almost surreal in this place of controlled movements and regulated spaces, a touch of nature intruding on human order. Their presence was a brief, beautiful anomaly, a reminder of a world beyond the polished floors and sterile air.

Finally, it was time to board. She sat by the window, her hair catching the thin, waning light in a way that seemed almost poetic. I framed the plane’s wing perfectly against the sky, the composition precise and deliberate, and clicked the shutter. But the result was an overexposed mess, a blinding washout that obliterated the intended beauty. I tried to capture the perfect picture, but it didn’t turn out as I had imagined. That’s okay, I thought. Not everything goes as planned, and that’s part of the journey. I’ll learn from it and move on, ready to embrace the unexpected twists and turns that lie ahead in San Francisco.