On a flight, I started watching an action movie. The passenger next to me, with his son, tapped my shoulder, “Turn it off. My kid doesn’t need to see violence.” I switched it off, and he thought he won, until I reached into my bag and pulled out a worn, leather-bound notebook.
I didn’t say a word, just opened it and began to write, occasionally glancing up, a slight, knowing smile playing on my lips. His name, I later learned, was Gordon, and he was clearly the type who expected compliance without question. He settled back, adjusting his expensive-looking noise-canceling headphones, seemingly satisfied with his swift victory.
His son, a quiet boy named Miles, who looked about eight, was more interested in the small window than his father’s curated peace. I continued writing, but my activity seemed to pique Gordon’s curiosity more than the movie ever did. He kept stealing peeks at my notebook, craning his neck subtly over the shared armrest.
My handwriting was small and quick, filling the pages with what looked like dense, uninterrupted prose. It wasn’t actually prose, though; it was a rough sketch of the scene around me, interspersed with a few cryptic notes. The cabin lights dimmed for the long stretch of the flight, and the gentle hum of the engines became the dominant sound.
Miles finally gave up on the window and leaned against his father, pulling a thin, slightly tattered book from his own small backpack. Gordon didn’t even notice; he was too busy trying to decipher the secrets held within my leather notebook. Miles’s book looked ancient, perhaps a hand-me-down from an older sibling or relative.
It was the classic adventure story, the kind with detailed, black-and-white illustrations. He seemed totally absorbed, turning the pages carefully with a serious expression that was quite endearing. Eventually, Gordon’s patience wore thin.
The need to know what I was doing was clearly overriding his desire for silence. He cleared his throat, a loud, attention-seeking sound, and leaned in slightly, trying to maintain a veneer of polite curiosity. “Excuse me,” he murmured, his voice tight with controlled annoyance.
“What exactly are you writing? Is that for work?”
I looked up slowly, meeting his eyes with an expression of complete calm. “Oh, this?” I tapped the cover of the notebook lightly.
The story doesn’t end here — it continues on the next page.
Tap READ MORE to discover the rest 🔎👇
