---
Window seats.
The undisputed throne of economy class—at least for me. I don't care what aisle people say about "easier bathroom access" or "being able to stretch their legs." Give me a view and a wall to lean on, and I can handle anything short of a ten-hour leg cramp.
Row 27, seat F. That's my spot for the next few hours. I'm already half-settled in before most of the passengers even start boarding, which is kind of nice—it means I get to watch them trickle in like characters in a stage play.
The guy next to me? Headphones on before he's even buckled in. Big, chunky, noise-cancelling monsters that could double as home defense weapons if needed. Good sign. People who commit to the "headphones barrier" are generally not looking to make awkward small talk. Respect.
The aisle seat is empty for now, which makes me feel like I've just drawn a rare item drop in an RPG. It's too good to last, of course—sooner or later, someone's going to come clattering down the aisle, find this seat, and wedge themselves in beside me. Until then, I'm enjoying my temporary upgrade.
---
The safety demo begins.
You know the one—cheerful attendants demonstrating how to buckle a seatbelt like we've all just emerged from the wilderness and have never encountered this advanced technology before.
They gesture toward the emergency exits with the precision of a synchronized dance troupe. The life vest demonstration is exactly the same as the last two hundred I've seen: slip it over your head, fasten the straps, pull the cord, try not to panic. The oxygen mask part always makes me imagine them deploying mid-flight, everyone looking like weirdly polite gas-masked stormtroopers.
I half-listen, mostly out of some deep-seated sense of politeness. The truth is, I've been on so many flights lately that the demo might as well be elevator music. If this plane actually goes down, I'm operating entirely on muscle memory and blind hope.
People-Watching 101
While the attendants go through their routine, I glance around the cabin.
Across the aisle, there's a kid who can't be more than seven years old, pressed so close to his window that his nose is probably leaving smudges. His eyes are huge—he's clearly decided that this flight is the most exciting thing to ever happen in the history of the universe. I envy that.
A couple a few rows ahead is already asleep, heads leaning toward each other like matching bookends. The man's mouth keeps twitching like he's halfway through a dream argument. The woman's got her hoodie up, face turned toward the wall.
The businessman directly in front of me is hammering away at his laptop keyboard, typing so fast I half-expect smoke to start curling out from under the keys. If I had to guess, he's editing some report that could absolutely wait, but he's convinced civilization will collapse if it isn't finished by landing.
---
I reach under the seat in front of me and pull out my camera bag. Inside is my old DSLR—scuffed, scratched, and familiar in a way most things in my life aren't right now.
I flip it on, scroll through the memory card. The images feel like a trail of breadcrumbs through the last eleven months:
— A Bangkok street food stall, the kind with plastic stools and metal tables, steam pouring out of pots while the cook works three burners at once.
— A stray cat curled up in the shade of a parked tuk-tuk, ears twitching every time someone walked by.
— A plate of mango sticky rice so perfect it looked staged. I remember I ate it so fast afterward I almost regretted not savoring it. Almost.
— A man mending fishing nets in southern Sri Lanka, hands moving faster than my shutter speed could capture.
— A cracked mirror selfie from three weeks ago. Me, rain dripping off my hair, eyes half-lidded with exhaustion.
When I first started traveling, I thought the "big" sights would be the ones I cared about. The famous temples, the skyline views, the "must-see" lists from travel blogs. And yeah, I've got those photos too—neatly composed, postcard-ready shots of landmarks.
But somewhere along the way, the little moments started feeling more important. The details nobody else notices. The steam curling off a bowl of noodles. The way sunlight falls through dirty glass. The stray dog asleep in the corner of a busy market.
Travel changes the way you see things. You stop looking for what's supposed to matter, and start noticing what actually does.
---
The engines roar and the cabin tilts back slightly. We're airborne.
Bangkok starts shrinking beneath us—first the crowded highways and snaking canals, then just clusters of buildings, then patches of green and brown until the city blurs into the horizon.
The pressure in my ears pops, once, twice, and then the light changes.
We break through the clouds.
World Above the World
It's…
It's something else up here.
The sky isn't blue—not exactly. It's pale gold near the horizon, fading into a soft white that blends seamlessly into the blanket of clouds below. The clouds themselves are perfectly smooth, an endless stretch that looks like you could just step out the door and start walking across it.
No turbulence. No breaks in the cloud cover. Just calm.
If I were more poetic, I'd compare it to floating over a sea of silk, or walking into the world's largest down comforter. Since I'm me, I'll just call it "weirdly nice" and leave it at that.
The captain's voice comes over the intercom:
> "Ladies and gentlemen, we're expecting a smooth flight all the way to Narita. Sit back, relax, and enjoy the ride."
Smooth all the way, huh? That's… unusual. I've had "smooth flights" before, but usually there's at least a little bump here and there. This? This looks like the sky got ironed flat.
Click
I pull out my camera, more out of reflex than intention. The light is too soft to ignore—it's the kind of glow you get maybe a few times in a year, where everything feels evenly lit but still warm.
I frame the shot so the wing cuts across the bottom corner, the curve leading the eye into the distance. Click.
Shift the focus to the horizon, where the gold fades into white. Click.
Adjust for the faint shimmer where the sun's trying to burn through the haze. Click.
They're not award-winning shots or anything. They're… quiet. Peaceful.
And maybe that's what's bothering me.
I can't remember the last time things felt this still.
---
It's not just that the sky looks smooth—it feels smooth. The air in the cabin is still, the background hum of the engines steady and unwavering. Even the passengers seem quieter than usual.
It's the kind of calm that makes you start noticing small things. The way the overhead lights reflect in the curve of the window glass. The faint vibration in the armrest. The fact that the guy next to me hasn't moved once since takeoff—not a shift, not a stretch.
Not that I'm worried or anything. Just… noticing.
I lower the camera and rest it in my lap. Outside, the world is nothing but light and cloud. No landmarks. No shadows. No sense of motion, even though we're cruising at hundreds of kilometers an hour.
It's beautiful.
It's peaceful.
It's… maybe a little too perfect.
---