That flight changed me in a way no destination ever could. I boarded like I always did — rushing through the airport, juggling my bag, half-listening to the boarding call, already dreaming of shutting the world out the moment I sat down. I was tired, impatient, and craving quiet. When I finally reached my seat, I reclined, put on my headphones, and prepared to disappear into my own little world.
But then I heard her voice — soft, polite, and hesitant. A pregnant woman behind me was asking the flight attendant for help, her tone filled with the kind of exhaustion that only comes from carrying both yourself and another life. She didn’t ask me directly to move or adjust my seat; she simply tried to make herself as comfortable as possible, shifting slowly, breathing carefully. And that’s when it hit me. My comfort — something I had thoughtlessly claimed — came at the cost of hers.
She didn’t complain. She didn’t scold. She just stayed quiet, probably too tired to say anything at all. But that silence said more than any words could have. It was the kind of silence that makes you confront yourself — the kind that reminds you that decency isn’t about rules or manners, but about awareness.
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