Blackbird

Suitcases line the wall adjacent to the front door. Her first thought is to wonder how she'll carry these all on her own. She almost suffocates at the thought of having to lug these around Heathrow alone, imagining the awkwardness of a less than 5 foot girl with 6 suitcases surrounding her feet as she tumbles into them and loses her footing. She can almost feel her knees scraping the cold floor of the airport. Almost any thought suffocates her these days. 

And yet. A little ball of light glows in her chest at the messiness of her imagination. Dragging 6 suitcases. Falling over. Getting a cab to her new home, at least for a few years. Her mouth draws into a thin line, unsmiling but not frowning either. She's at an impasse, as she's been the last couple of weeks. 

"Nasrin! Where are you?" She hears her mother call. It's her birthday today. 19. When she was 14 she was almost sure she'd die before she got to this age. The morbid thoughts of a pubescent teen. 

At the dining table, her father lights candles on her birthday jelly. She'd claimed to have had enough of cake. Now as she stands before the ruby red thing, she wishes she'd kept it traditional for old time's sake. Who knew when she'd celebrate her birthday at this table with her family again. 

Her mother looks her up and down amusedly. "What are you wearing?" She gestures to the ratty jacket and sweatpants she has on. 

"The rest of my clothes have been packed up," Nasrin says with a shrug. 

"I'm surprised you have any clothes left in this house," her brother chimes. "6 suitcases and still some clothes still hang in your closet." 

She grins. I'll miss this, she thinks. I'll miss this I'll miss this. 

They start to sing Happy Birthday, and her heart warms at this tradition. In the flicker of the candles, she can almost see every birthday she's had before, in different houses up until now, the house they moved into when she was 9. She wishes her brain to become a recorder, to record her family's chorus of singing and to be able to play it to herself whenever she feels alone, whenever she feels too far away from home. She closes her eyes, willing it to happen. 

They stop singing, the final key still ringing in the air. Her eyes still closed, she blows on the candles, feels the heat vanish from her cheeks. 

Behind closed eyes, a short clip like a trailer from a movie plays. She sees a brown eyed man with a thousand watt smile laughing on the beach, and in another scene she sees her and him running in the isle of a supermarket, a store, somewhere. They are on a street, wearing coats, and snow is falling, and this man smiles and smiles and smiles as his breath vapourizes in the cold. They jump in a pile of dried leaves. His skin is the colour of honey, freckled at the cheeks. His hair is a mess, red and brown leaves sticking up in the curls. She opens her eyes and she is back in her home with her family, and the beautiful man vanishes. 

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It is a week later. The airport is busy, noisy with people singing and cheering. It is the season for young people to leave the nest. She sees other people around her age walking around the airport, and she is comforted at the sight of their fear and confusion that matches hers. The beauty in the messiness of one's 20s. 

She tries not to think of her family as she waits to board her plane, lest she start to cry uncontrollably. She sees planes leaving and arriving the strip of land in front of her, tires landing and taking off the tarmac. In an attempt to distract herself, she turns the movement of the planes into a pattern, tries to find a rhythm. When that proves futile, she cracks open the book she's been reading for a month, her first classical read - Sense and Sensibility. 

She's 10 pages in when a stranger takes up the seat next to her. Nasrin shifts to leave more arm space for the man next to her. A quick glance tells her he's a student, too. He's staring out the window she was minutes ago, arms crossed against his chest, the earbuds plugged into his phone loose on his lap instead of in his ears. 

He glances at her, and Nasrin looks away, almost blushing, wondering if this man saw her analyzing him. She feels his stare on her. 

"Which one are you?" He asks. 

Her neck snaps towards him, eyes wide. "What?"

His eyes are brown. His skin is honey. She thinks he recognizes him. He puts a finger on the page she's on, tapping on it. "Are you sense or sensibility?"

"Oh," she says, clearing her throat. "I like to think that I could be both." 

He smiles, only his upper teeth showing. She realizes he has a bit of an overbite. "I think I'm sense," he says. 

"Oh," she replies, trying to find something else to follow with. 

"You going to London?" She asks instead. She tries to hide the wince her face involuntarily contorts. Of course he's going to London - we're waiting for the same plane.

But he shakes his head. "I am, but only as a transit flight. I'm going to Cardiff." 

"Great school there I heard."

"Great views too," he says dreamily before turning to her. "Seaside town and all."

Nasrin's heart flutters at the mention of the sea. She wants to grab him by the collar, tell him about her visions. If he calls security, if she ends up in a nuthouse, so be it. She's sure it is him. Those freckles under his eyes are unmistakable. 

A flurry of people pass them, and she realizes they've called their flight. She watches him take his bag, packing his earbuds in his pocket. "That's us," he says. 

"Yeah," she says, standing up with him. She should tell him her name, she thinks. They should exchange numbers, Instagram accounts, keep in touch. 

"Goodluck with everything," he says with a smile, saluting her lazily, and she lets him walk away instead. 

"You too," she replies. She lets this beautiful stranger walk away with his backpack only half strapped on one shoulder, the other strap hanging loosely by his back. "Don't be a stranger!" She calls after him. He turns back at her to smile back. "You too!" He shouts. He joins the rapidly forming line at the end of the gate. 

She lets out a sigh. And yet. She smiles. They will surely cross paths again.