As I walked past him, he gave a small nod — half-apology, half-peace offering.
A Seat in First Class — and a Storm in My Mind
I kept replaying that day from two years ago: the cold office, the careful phrasing — “budget restructuring,” “unfortunately, we have to let you go.” Words that felt professional to him but devastating to me.
That day had broken something inside me. I’d spent months picking up the pieces through therapy, side jobs, and sleepless nights. I eventually rebuilt a quieter, humbler version of myself — one that didn’t rely on titles or approval. Still, seeing him again reopened the old wound.
Why would he upgrade me? Guilt? Pity? Or something else entirely?
Halfway through the flight, the same attendant approached again. “The gentleman in 22B wondered if you’d be open to a short conversation.”
I hesitated. Every instinct said no. But curiosity — and maybe a lingering need for closure — won.
