James

Seven and a half hours on a plane seemed like an exorbitant amount of time until I was on said aircraft waiting to reunite with my future at the other end. It had flown by in nervous anticipation, and when the wheels hit the ground, my stomach threatened a revolt. My anxiety hit the roof, and I was afraid I wouldn’t be able to get out of my seat and down the aisle unassisted. I didn’t even want to talk about the form I had to fill out for customs—it wasn’t even legible my hands shook so badly.

I fumbled with my luggage and got in the endless line to trudge through customs. They were going to think I was a heroin mule due to the volume of sweat pouring off my face—and fuck, my heart raced like I’d just swam across the ocean instead of flown. I looked guilty, and no one would believe it was just jitters from seeing the love of my life.