I glanced at her knees brushing the seat and shrugged. “Sorry, it’s a long flight. I paid for this seat.”
She pushed again. That’s when my patience snapped. I pulled out one headphone and said, loud enough for nearby passengers to hear: “If you want luxury, fly business class!” The air got awkwardly quiet.
A couple of passengers stared at me like I’d just slapped someone. She muttered something under her breath and didn’t speak to me again, though I felt the occasional “accidental” bump against my seat.
Twelve hours later, we landed. I was ready to grab my carry-on and vanish into the terminal, but as I stood, a flight attendant approached.
“Sir,” she said, her voice calm but oddly pointed. “Before you disembark… check your bag.” Confused, I pulled my backpack from the overhead bin.
The zipper was half-open — which was strange, because I never leave it that way.
My heart skipped as I unzipped it fully. Inside, right on top of my neatly folded hoodie, was a small white envelope. It wasn’t mine. I tore it open and froze.
