“When I was on that plane,” she said, her voice soft but clear. “Did any of you say stop?”
The question hung there, unanswered. The silence was louder than any words.
At a small diner across town, Lysandra met Claire for lunch. The two of them tucked into a corner booth.
The waitress, a woman with tired eyes and a quick smile, set down their plates with a clatter.
“You look like you’re carrying the world,” she said to Lysandra, her voice kind but blunt.
Lysandra glanced up, her fork pausing midair.
“Just a piece of it,” she said, her tone light but her eyes heavy.
The waitress nodded like she understood, and left a small stack of napkins by Lysandra’s plate—a quiet gesture of care.
Claire watched, then leaned forward, whispering: “They’re falling apart, without you even trying.”
Lysandra pushed her plate aside, her gaze drifting to the window where a plane cut across the sky, its trail fading into the clouds.
