Chapter 3 Turbulent Skies

Amelia Noah POV

Seat 14A offers nothing but ocean and clouds stretching endlessly toward a horizon I can't see. The plane hums with that particular white noise of recycled air and distant conversations, punctuated by the occasional ding of the seatbelt sign. I've claimed the window seat like territory, my journal open on the tiny tray table, pen poised over a blank page.

Day One of Whatever This Is, I write, then cross it out. Too dramatic.

Flight to Athens, I try instead. Eight hours to figure out my life.

The elderly woman in the aisle seat catches my eye and smiles. "Going somewhere exciting?"

"Greece," I say. "Santorini."

"How wonderful! Are you meeting family there?"

The question lodges somewhere uncomfortable in my chest. "No, just me. Solo trip."

Her eyebrows lift with what might be approval or concern. "How brave. I've never traveled alone in my life. Married forty-three years, you see." She gestures to the silver band on her finger. "Harold always handled the logistics."

Harold always handled the logistics. The words stick as she returns to her crossword puzzle, leaving me staring at my empty journal page. Forty-three years of shared logistics, shared decisions, shared destinations. Forty-three years of never having to sit alone on a plane, questioning every choice that led to this moment.

I take a sip of wine—the flight attendant didn't even card me, which somehow feels like another small defeat—and let the Pinot Grigio warm the knot in my stomach.

Men I've Dated: A Comprehensive Study in Poor Judgment, I write.

The wine makes me honest, or maybe it's the altitude. Thirty thousand feet feels like the right distance from reality to examine the wreckage.

Marcus Liam, 8 months. I draw a line under his name like a death certificate. Cheated with personal trainer. Called me "suffocating" and "too needy." Red flags ignored: phone secrecy, sudden gym obsession, defensive when questioned about schedule changes.

My pen moves faster now, muscle memory from college when I'd outline essays at 2 AM, organizing chaos into manageable categories.

Ryan Torres, 6 months. Broke up via text after I suggested meeting his parents. Called me "clingy." Red flags: never made weekend plans more than a day in advance, referred to relationship as "casual" despite exclusive arrangement, went silent for days without explanation.

The plane hits turbulence, and my wine sloshes in its plastic cup. I grip the armrest until the shaking stops, but my handwriting doesn't pause.

David Park, 11 months. Called me "emotionally exhausting" when I wanted him to meet my family. Red flags: criticized my "intensity," made jokes about my "drama," consistently minimized my feelings during conflicts.

The pattern emerges with mathematical precision, each relationship a variation on the same theme. I meet someone charming and confident. I mistake their initial attention for genuine interest. I begin to invest emotionally. They begin to retreat. I try harder to prove my worth. They label my efforts as character flaws.

James Wu, 4 months. Said I had "unrealistic expectations" about communication. Translation: wanted to text regularly and know his weekend plans.

Tommy Rodriguez, 3 months. Called me "high maintenance" for wanting dates that didn't involve sports bars.

The list grows longer, spanning back to college and beyond, each name representing months of my life spent trying to convince someone I was worth consistent effort. The wine makes my eyes water, or maybe it's something else entirely.

"Rough flight?" Harold's wife asks, noticing my grip on the armrest.

"Just some turbulence," I manage.

"Oh, honey," she says, and somehow I know she's not talking about the weather. "Sometimes turbulence just means you're moving in the right direction."

I want to ask her how she knows, how she ended up with forty-three years instead of forty-three failed relationships. Instead, I nod and return to my journal.

Common denominators: I meet them when I'm vulnerable. I make them my emotional center. I ignore early signs of disengagement. I interpret their pulling away as something I need to fix about myself.

The plane shudders again, and this time I don't grip the armrest. The turbulence feels cleansing somehow, like the universe shaking loose everything I've been carrying.

What if the problem isn't that I'm too much? What if the problem is that I keep choosing men who think any emotional investment is too much?

I underline that sentence twice.

What if I'm not needy for wanting fidelity, consistency, and basic respect? What if these are reasonable expectations that weak men can't meet?

The wine has made me philosophical, or maybe just honest. I flip to a fresh page and write: Things I Actually Want.

The list comes easily, surprising me with its simplicity:

Someone who answers their phone. Someone who makes plans more than twelve hours in advance. Someone who doesn't disappear for days without explanation. Someone who thinks my emotions are worth considering. Someone who doesn't treat my love like a burden.

I stare at what I've written. These aren't unrealistic expectations. These are the bare minimum requirements for human decency. Yet I've spent years apologizing for wanting them, convincing myself that asking for basic respect makes me high maintenance.

"Ladies and gentlemen, we're beginning our initial descent into Athens."

The announcement startles me back to the present. Below, the Aegean Sea spreads like crumpled blue silk, dotted with islands that look like scattered coins. Greece. I'm actually doing this.

The elderly woman peers over at my journal. "Writing a book?"

"Something like that," I say, closing the cover. "More like rewriting one."

"The best stories have multiple drafts," she says with a knowing smile.

As the plane descends through layers of clouds, Athens takes shape below—ancient and modern existing side by side, white buildings climbing hillsides toward monuments that have witnessed centuries of human drama. From this height, my relationship failures seem smaller somehow, less like personal indictments and more like learning experiences.

The wheels touch down with a gentle thump, and passengers around me begin reaching for overhead compartments, eager to claim their luggage and begin whatever adventures brought them here. I remain seated, watching the Greek countryside roll past the small window.

Somewhere in this country is an island where I'll spend a week remembering who I am when I'm not trying to earn someone's love. Somewhere is a resort room with my name on it, a terrace where I can sit alone without feeling lonely, pools where I can swim without wondering if someone finds my stroke technique too intense or my laugh too loud.

The elderly woman stands carefully, Harold helping her navigate the narrow aisle. Before she leaves, she turns back to me.

"You know what I learned in forty-three years of marriage?" she says.

I shake my head.

"The right person never makes you feel like you're too much. They make you feel like you're exactly enough."

She disappears into the crowd of deplaning passengers, leaving me with those words and the distant mountains of Greece visible through the terminal windows.

I gather my journal and carry-on, joining the slow procession toward customs and baggage claim and whatever comes next. The airport smells like coffee and cleaning solution and possibility. Signs in Greek and English point toward ground transportation, toward ferries that will carry me to islands I've only seen in photographs.

My phone buzzes with a text from Kate: Landed safely? Thinking of you.

I type back: Just touched down. About to catch the ferry to Santorini. I think I'm ready for this.

And for the first time since I pressed the reserve button on that hotel website, I mean it.

The ferry terminal looms ahead through the airport's glass doors, beyond which lies the Aegean Sea and an island where I'll spend seven days learning the difference between being alone and being lonely. Seven days of nobody else's schedule but my own, nobody else's emotional needs to navigate, nobody else's opinion about whether my expectations are reasonable.

Just me and the Mediterranean sun and the revolutionary idea that maybe, just maybe, I'm exactly enough