The air was thick with tension as I settled into my seat in business class, the hum of the planes engines a distant backdrop to my thoughts. Id booked the window seat weeks ago, hoping for a peaceful flighttime to work, to rest, to escape. Around me, passengers shuffled into their places, luggage stowed away, flight attendants offering polite smiles and chilled water.
Then he arrived.
A man in a sharp Savile Row suit, leather briefcase in hand, strode down the aisle with the confidence of someone who owned the sky. His eyes flicked to the seat beside mine, then to me. His lip curled.
“Bloody hell,” he announced, loud enough for half the cabin to hear. “I paid for business class, not a sardine tin. Whats next, standing room only?”
He threw me a withering glance as he dropped into his seat, elbow jabbing my side with deliberate force.
“Ive got a critical conference to prep for, and now Im wedged in like some Tube commuter at rush hour.” His voice dripped with contempt. “Why do they even let people like *her* up here?”
The words hung in the air, sharp as a blade. I turned to the window, my throat tight. It wasnt the first time someone had sneered at my size, but the sheer venomthe entitlementcut deeper than Id expected.
The flight dragged on. He rustled papers, sighed dramatically, shifted with exaggerated discomfort. I said nothing. Id learned long ago how to fold into myself, to endure.
Then came the landing.
As the seatbelt signs flicked off, a young man from economy approached, nodding respectfully. “Ms. Whitmore, shall we head straight to the conference venue after checking in? Everythings arranged.”
The man beside me froze. I felt his stare like a physical weight.
“Wait,” he stammered, colour draining from his face. “Youyoure attending the summit? The keynote speaker Dr. Eleanor Whitmore?”
I met his gaze evenly. “Yes. Thats me.”
His mouth opened, closed. Mumbled apologies tumbled outhow he admired my research, how hed read my papers on neural networks.
I offered a polite smile, collected my things, and stepped into the aisle without another word. Behind me, silence. The kind that comes when pride shatters.
Maybe next time, hell think twice before judging a book by its cover.
