Last Flight Home

It was just past 8 PM at the ever-bustling Dubai International Airport. Amid the noise of rolling trolleys, muffled flight announcements, and the hum of lives in motion, Aji stepped out of the taxi. He clutched his handbag a little tighter than usual and stood still for a moment, watching the crowd swirl around him. Then he exhaled and slowly began to walk toward the check-in counter.

This trip wasn’t scheduled on a calendar or marked with reminders. It was one of those heart-pulled decisions. Aji’s wife had gently insisted, “Please be there when we come back… the kids will be happy.” She had taken them home early for school vacation. He had resisted, arguing about work and logistics, but in the silence of the apartment, her voice echoed more loudly than the reasons not to go.

So here he was—with a last-minute ticket to Mangalore. Kannur was fully booked. He'd have to take a train from Mangalore in the morning. Not ideal. But Aji was always the kind of man who figured it out.

He felt a pang thinking about his wife returning alone, juggling kids and luggage. She would smile through it all, never complain. That was her way. But the guilt gnawed at him quietly.

He also had a college reunion planned. His old gang had a rule: every time one of them visited home, they’d meet, no excuses. They called themselves “The Eternal Reunion Club,” and somehow, despite marriages, kids, and jobs in different time zones, they’d kept the tradition alive.

The airport was unusually crowded. Dubai allowed loved ones to accompany travelers up to check-in, which explained the warm farewells and teary embraces everywhere. Aji, ever the people-watcher, took in these moments with a soft smile.

Check-in. Immigration. Duty-free. He picked up two bottles for friends back home. Familiar steps, familiar routine.

Then, as he turned a corner toward the lounge, a woman brushed past him. Just another traveler. But her eyes—those eyes—lingered.

She paused. Turned back.

And smiled.

Time folded into itself.

It was Jisha.

Aji stood frozen. For a breathless moment, the airport faded away—the noise, the crowd, everything. All that remained was her face, lit with a cautious, almost shy smile. The kind that said, Is it really you?

Despite knowing she lived in Dubai, Aji had never reached out. He couldn’t.

The smile on her face began to fade, sensing his silence.

“Going home? Which flight? Alone?” he finally blurted.

She laughed. That same laugh—unfiltered, warm, and immediate.

“Yes. Mangalore. Alone. My husband couldn’t get leave. The kids went with my in-laws. I was supposed to join them earlier but found out at the airport that my passport had expired. Can you believe it?” She rolled her eyes and laughed again. “Had to renew it and book this flight last minute.”

She said it all in one breath. Some things never changed.

“No change at all,” Aji smiled, his voice barely above a whisper.

“The gate’s that way,” he added, gently pointing.

“I’ll walk you there.”

She nodded.

“Still got time?”

“A bit.”

“Then come to the lounge. I have access… and a guest pass.”

She hesitated.

“Please,” he said softly.

They walked together like they once did through their college campus—side by side, a quiet comfort in each other’s presence. In the lounge, they picked a quiet corner. The world outside continued to spin, but for them, time had slowed.

Aji watched her while she picked food from the counter. Her mannerisms. The way she curled her hair behind her ear. The way she paused before choosing between tea and coffee. It was all etched in his memory, unchanged by time.

“You haven’t changed,” she said, looking at him as they sat down. “Not even after 19 years.”

Their eyes met—and suddenly, they were back in college.

Five years of memories unraveled between them. They had studied together from undergrad through postgrad. From group projects to shared lunches. From stolen glances during lectures to silent walks back to the hostel. They were more than best friends, but never quite lovers.

They never held hands. Never made grand confessions.

But every single day, they talked. Even if they’d been in class together for hours, Aji would call her at night—just to talk about nothing. It was their thing. Their secret.

When it rained, she’d share her umbrella with him—and then scold him for walking in puddles and falling sick. When he forgot lunch, she’d sneak extra food from her box, pretending it was too much for her. And on Valentine's Day, he had secretly dropped a Dairy Milk into her bag, watching her smile with confused delight when she found it.

They never told anyone. Their world was too delicate for the noise of judgment.

But reality doesn’t wait for love that isn’t spoken aloud.

By the end of their master’s degree, pressure mounted from Jisha’s family. Aji wasn’t ready. He came from a home where dreams often bowed to survival. There were loans, responsibilities, and expectations. He couldn’t ask her to wait. He had nothing to offer except love.

So they made the most painful decision—to part ways.

She got engaged. But she kept calling. Just to hear his voice. Just to stay close. And that’s when he began to avoid her. He couldn’t bear it. Couldn’t pretend he wasn’t dying inside.

When her wedding came, he went. He stood beside her in the reception photo. Smiled.

And when he got home, he shut the door, collapsed onto his bed, and cried—like he never had before.

His mother knocked. “Aji, what happened?”

“Nothing,” he whispered.

But his heart was breaking.

---

Time moved. He took a job in his hometown. Eventually moved to Dubai.

A few months after settling in Dubai, Aji came to know—through a mutual friend—that Jisha had also moved to the same city with her husband. The city was vast, but the thought that she was somewhere close stirred something deep within him. He had opportunities to reach out, to meet her, even casually. But he didn’t. Not because he didn’t want to—but because he was afraid. Afraid of reopening wounds that had only just begun to scar over. Still, he never left her thoughts. Every day, amidst meetings and metro rides, he found himself drifting back to those golden years—the laughter they shared, the quiet support they offered each other, the little moments that had built a bond stronger than words.

Years passed with the same quiet ache lingering in his heart. In time, Aji got married. Life moved forward. He became a father, and though his world grew fuller, a part of him still held on to Jisha’s memories with the care of someone protecting something precious.

Then came the pandemic. Everything changed. Aji resigned from his job and returned to India to be closer to his family. It was during this period that his second child was born—a new chapter, a deeper bond, a clearer purpose. Later, he received a good offer and moved back to Dubai.

This time, something had shifted. The overwhelming emotions that once clung to him like shadows had slowly faded. His love for Jisha had transformed—from longing to gratitude. Gratitude for having experienced something so pure. He no longer felt the same ache. Instead, he found peace in his family life, in his children's laughter, in the quiet companionship of his wife. It had taken years, but he had finally begun to live in the present—with a full heart.

Better late than never.

And now, after years of carrying her memories quietly, she was here. Sitting beside him. Eating from the same plate. Smiling like no time had passed.

They didn’t talk about their families. They talked about them. Because they knew—this was all they had. One fleeting window into a life that might’ve been.

Still, they both remembered everything.

The last time they had exchanged glances across the classroom.

The last message she sent that he never replied to.

In the flight, they had different seats. But Aji, heart thumping, asked another passenger to switch seats. As he sat down beside her, she smiled knowingly. Expectantly.

“I dreamt of this moment,” he whispered. “So many times.”

She smiled, eyes misty. “Me too.”

They spoke softly, reminiscing.

“The time I saved you in chemistry practicals,” she laughed.

“The time I came to your home for lunch and your mom made too much food,” he grinned.

“The time you got scolded for writing poems in my notebook,” she teased.

“And that trip to Ooty…late night talks,” she chuckled.

“The day we were late to college after watching a movie.”

“The time you cried when my sister was in the hospital,” he added.

“I prayed every day,” she whispered.

They laughed, they cried softly between words.

Three hours passed like three blinks.

Then came the landing announcement.

They both adjusted their seats, still whispering to each other.

Then… a deafening noise.

A shudder. A violent jolt.

And silence.

The world woke up to the tragic headlines: Mangalore flight crashes during landing. Casualties confirmed.

Later, as forensic teams combed through the wreckage, they found something haunting.

Among the ruins, two charred bodies.

Hands still holding each other.

That was their first touch.

And their last.

A love that never faded. A connection that lived in silence. A story that began in college, paused by life, and ended—eternally joined—in the fire of fate.