The Departure Gate

At gate 14, David twisted the frayed **cable** connecting his noise-canceling headphones to the slot in his armrest. The flight to Chicago was delayed again, and he'd already drained his phone's battery scrolling through three years of text messages—each one a small monument to what he'd lost.

He'd packed in a haze that morning. His favorite **hat**, a navy beanie Elena had bought him in Paris, sat in his carry-on alongside a bottle of **vitamin** D supplements she'd insisted on. You're always tired in winter, she'd said, pressing the bottle into his palm last autumn. Now he wondered if she'd been right about everything.

A woman across the aisle peeled an **orange**, the citrus scent cutting through the stale airport air. It reminded him of their first apartment, how they'd eaten oranges on the balcony watching the sunset, making promises that felt permanent then. That memory was dangerous—soft and yielding, easy to sink into.

His **iPhone** buzzed with 1% battery. A final notification from her: I hope you find what you're looking for.

He laughed, a hollow sound. She'd always been kinder than he deserved. The boarding announcement crackled through the speakers. David stood, adjusted his bag, and left the hat on his seat—some things you couldn't carry forward. The flight would take four hours. At the other end, he'd need to figure out how to begin again.