The Amber Glow of the Terminal Gate

Dear Delyara, It is 2:45 AM, and I am sitting on a cold metal bench near the arrivals terminal, listening to the low, rhythmic hum of the floor buffing machine moving across the polished linoleum. The airport is mostly a ghost town at this hour, a liminal space where nobody knows your history and nobody is looking at you. I have a notebook resting on my knee, but my pen hasn't moved in twenty minutes. I keep thinking about how easy it is to look completely fine on the outside while carrying a quiet, fracturing earthquake inside your chest. To the couple who just walked past carrying their luggage, I’m just another traveler waiting for a delayed flight. They don't see the silent panic of a man trying to reinvent his entire life from scratch in the dark. This hour feels safe because the world isn't asking me to be successful right now; it's just letting me wait in the quiet.