I sat in the empty seat beside him. We talked for an hour.
He told me about freelancing, teaching coding, moving back with his parents, taking a retail job.
I shared my own story—the therapy, the slow climb back, how losing that job forced me to find what mattered. I’d joined a nonprofit, then started my own venture building digital tools for mental health.
“It’s doing okay,” I said. “Not a unicorn, but we help people.”
“That’s worth more than unicorns,” he said.
Then he asked, “You still mad at me?”
I paused. “I was. For a long time. But maybe not now.”
He nodded and reached into his bag, handing me a wrinkled envelope.
Inside was a check. Ten thousand dollars.
“Partial severance,” he said. “Back pay, if you will. I couldn’t give it back then—the company account was frozen. I promised myself, if I ever got back on my feet, I’d make it right.”
“It’s not enough,” he replied. “But it’s something. If it helps, keep it. If not, donate it. I just needed to let it go.”
I tucked the envelope into my jacket.
When we landed, we stood side by side in the terminal. He extended a hand—I shook it.
“Thank you,” he said, “for giving me a few minutes.”
“Thank you,” I replied, “for the seat.”
We parted ways. I watched him disappear into the crowd.
Outside, the autumn air was crisp. I stood still, watching people rush past.Continue reading…
