Avis du vol entre Singapore et Seoul en classe Economique avec Korean Air

Some people go on vacation to disconnect.
I went to Singapore to be ignored in real time.

It wasn’t really a breakup. There was nothing to break.
We were “travel companions.”
Which is code for “I booked the Airbnb and she slowly ghosted me over 5 days while I watched lizards on the ceiling.”

By day four, I knew I’d be flying back alone. By day five, she told me I snore in my sleep and left for another hostel “to think.” That’s the last thing she said.

The Airbnb owner knocks on the door this morning.
He needs me out early because he’s “having a barbecue.” That’s how I learn I’ve overstayed by 12 hours. I leave with my 23 kg of emotional baggage, four heat rashes, and a receipt for a two-person Sentosa island pass I used alone.

Nobody knows I’m coming back tonight. Nobody knew I left either. I book the flight back to Seoul using a payment plan.

I arrive at the terminal four hours early. Not for check-in—
just because I got kicked out of my Airbnb and the sun hates me.
I try to act cool while recharging my phone at a public outlet that only works if I sit on the floor and don’t breathe.

I pass the time watching couples fly to Bali and pretending I’m doing better than them because I have a Kindle and self-awareness.

I get a text from my ex-travel companion. It says “have a safe flight ” with no punctuation. I cry in the men’s room like an NFT project manager.

I’m asked if I packed my bag myself. Yes. With disappointment and a Bluetooth speaker I won’t need anymore.
When she gives me my boarding pass, I say “thank you” three times because I haven’t spoken to anyone today.

Behind me, a couple is arguing about something dramatic. I stay a little longer just to hear what it’s like to be needed.

The officer looks at my passport and says “how long were you in Singapore?” I say “too long” and he nods like he gets it.

I enter the duty-free zone and realize I have no one to bring anything back for. I wander, just to look like someone who still consumes.

I check my reflection in the perfume shop mirror. I look like a character cut from the plot halfway through season one.

I sit in the gate area like a broken USB stick technically functional but unwanted.
I consider buying a drink, but I remember I still have coins from my last trip coins from cities I’ll never visit again. They feel heavier than paper money ever could.

They call Business Class first. I stand up instinctively, then sit back down when I realize where I am in life.

A family of four boards together. Their kids laugh and I feel the sudden need to rewatch Marriage Story.

Zone 4 is finally called. I walk up like a man reporting to community service.

As I step into the jet bridge, I feel something tighten in my chest. It’s not sadness.
It’s just the knowledge that NO ONE knows I’m leaving.

I greet the cabin crew too enthusiastically. They say “Welcome aboard” like they don’t mean it, which is fair.
I watch others board and hope someone sits next to me so I can pretend we might fall in love. A middle-aged man with a neck pillow takes the seat. I name him Regret.

As we lift off, I imagine the Airbnb host changing the bedsheets and deleting our chat.
He probably tells the next guest, “The last guy was… quiet.”
He’s not wrong.

The lights of Singapore slip beneath the clouds.
I’ve seen enough places I didn’t belong in.

I gently fall asleep and I skip the korean air service

The cabin lights dim. I stare at the seatback map and wonder if I could just stay in the air forever.
I think about texting her. I draft a message: “Hope you enjoyed the trip.” I don’t send it. I fall asleep with the draft open.
I go to the lavatory just to cry without context. The mirror doesn’t even judge me. It’s seen worse.