Oh

The day you told me about your fear of planes it was raining, similar to how it is today. It was only a small drizzle, however. It was like the clouds sensed your stress and comforted you, sliding down your cheeks and kissing your dappled skin. You had been hesitant to tell me, but that was the day we were sharing absolutely everything. Our favourite colours – yours is green, mine’s purple – and our best friend’s secret they shared with us when we were younger – your best friend told you she kissed a guy behind the trees in third grade, and I was told about how a friend accidentally killed their neighbour’s fish. What we wanted to be when we were older – a fairy princess and a superhero – and how we took our coffee, just in case we would ever forget it – you have two sugars and no milk, except if you’re in a bad mood in which case you’ll take the milk, and I have no sugar and heaps of milk, no changes.

We were seated at the kitchen bench and you were gazing out of the window. You stated your reason bluntly, no sugar coating or soothing the inevitable jolt of shock that was going to run through me. “My dad was in a plane crash. He almost died.” Your voice was shaking as you reached the end of the sentence. “That’s my biggest fear, and the reason why. Your turn.”

I could barely squeeze out the next few words – “Performing is my worst fear. I have panic attacks from the stage fright.” You nodded and replied with,

“Understandable.”

Today it was bucketing down. It had been non – stop for about four hours. I didn’t know if you were off the plane, or still soaring in the clouds. I hoped that you were on the ground – the sky was currently a dangerous place to be. I could only imagine how much your anxiety would be peaking. Your rushed breathing, your hammering heart. Gripping the arms of the chair until your skin was stretched so taut it was white, the blood fleeing the area. The pins and needles that would occur, starting a domino effect in your mind – something else is wrong.

My fingers slipped on the numbers on my mobile as I dialled your number. I ended up back at square one, your dial tone, but all that was consuming my mind were your answers from my further questioning.

“What happened to your dad?”

You brushed a stray lock of hair out of your face before answering. “The plane went down in the middle of the ocean. A liner was nearby and picked up as many people as they could.” You rubbed small circles into the mug of coffee in your hands, the heat reassuring you. “He was lucky. Third class, middle of the plane. He was one of the first rescued.”

“Where was he going?”

“He was coming back home from Australia. He had a bit of business back there.”

Sometimes I forgot your country of origin. Your accent had blended nicely, leaving only a few inflections in your speech to give credit. Not that I ever noticed – your voice was as relaxing and well known to me as my own, except I never bored of it.

“How did the plane go down?” I should have known better than to pry too far. Your eyes flashed a warning and I ducked my head in response, changing the subject. “First person you screwed?” A blush blossomed across your cheeks and I had smiled – you were, for the first time in our questioning, speechless.

I received word of your whereabouts at about three o’clock the following morning. It wasn’t much, but it was a text message at least. It was more than I would have done. I wouldn’t have let you sleep easy, knowing that you were the one that pushed me away. I know it’s selfish and childish, but I would want to hurt you as much as you hurt me. Then again, I never would have left.

I’m in Sydney.
The plane didn’t crash.

I tried to call you – never mind me trying to hurt you. I still want you back, here with me. I want to know that you’re safe and that I’m the one who’s protecting you. It went to a dial tone, just like it did on Tuesday, like it did the week after, and the month after. Just like it did yesterday, almost five years after your departure. I figured that you had dumped the phone in the Sydney Harbour, it seemed like something you would do. Drown your past in your present. You would find something humorous in that.

Two weeks after you were gone, I wanted to know how far away you were. Maybe I could walk it. I started by doing a few miles every day, then bumped it up to ten. I walked 13 510 miles in the past five years. You are 9787 miles away. I could have walked to you and been a third of the way back home. But I can’t walk on water, no matter how much I try or wish it so – I had dragged myself back home in wet jeans and a shirt that clung to my body, just like you had, a few times too many for it to be false.

The day I received a knock on my door it was raining. I had fallen into a destructive cycle since your departure. I had lost my job, and when I wasn’t walking I was either drinking myself into oblivion or trying to sober up and get a job. My resume, however, was lacking for someone of my age and most places turned me down. At first I had drunk to forget you, but now it was habitual. A few friends had tried to help me, and I had two sobriety pins – not that I had ever attended the meetings past one month. I had a scraggly beard – I was on my downward spiral – and my shirt had an abundance of stains on it.

The postman had screwed up his nose but passed me the letter anyway – “special request to deliver it to your door,” he had explained after I gave him a questioning look. The handwriting was familiar and the words inside rocked me to my core.

I’m home.