It becomes more people entering the airplane through the front desk while my position in the queue is getting closer. The heavy backpack behind my back makes my shoulders uncomfortable, and I shake it up to relieve the pressure. Standing behind me is a young girl with black hair, also carrying a backpack. She seems more relaxed, her eyes wandering around the airport in a daydream.
“Sir.” A female voice calls me back when I’m glancing at the girl behind me.
I quickly turn to face the staff.
“May I see your passport and boarding pass, please?” she asks.
I raise my passport and boarding pass, handing them to her. She takes both documents, scans them, then hands them back to me.
“Thanks,” I say, and she nods.
I hold onto my documents, waiting to step forward in the queue. When I see the final person in the group ahead of me hand over his passport and boarding pass, I know my turn is coming. As he receives his passport and the partially torn boarding pass back, I step forward. The staff member looks up at me.
“Welcome to your journey,” she says, and I nod, handing her my documents.
She places the boarding pass over the red flashing scanner. We both hear a beep, and she tears part of the boarding pass, returning both documents to me.
“Safe travels, sir,” she adds.
I walk down the corridor, where two signboards slowly come into view: one for First Class and Business Class, and another for Economy Class, which I’ll be taking. There’s a small cluster of passengers near the aircraft entrance. I gradually approach the end of the line while the aircrew up front continue welcoming passengers. My gaze drifts over the male and female crew members greeting passengers as I wait in line. There are about 5–6 people ahead of me before I’ll enter the plane.
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The air feels fresh, filled with the quiet sounds of people breathing. I take out my phone, press the button for the wallpaper to appear. A notification pops up, and I swipe it away to unlock my phone.
The grey background and a few unfinished messages appear. The last two lines, “Safe flight” and “Message me when you get on the plane,” soothe my nerves amidst the uncomfortable surroundings. I’m just about to type a reply when the queue starts moving again.
The journey to the airplane entrance is long and frustrating, with a few stopping moments. Relief fills me when I spot the nameplate of a female crew member — Sherry McDonald — as she elegantly takes my boarding pass out of my passport.
“52C will be in this corridor,” she says, handing the boarding pass back to me with a smile.
Following her instructions, I walk between the rows of seats, past some already seated passengers. Another queue forms as people try to settle in, with others waiting to store their backpacks and suitcases. The air grows stuffy, filled with warmth, sweat, and breaths, making it hard to find fresh air. I feel squeezed, like a crumpled piece of paper, surrounded by people pushing to store luggage and others pressing in from behind.
Gradually, the corridor becomes more spacious, the gaps between people widen, giving me more room to move towards my seat. The people behind me continue pushing to get in faster, which I find amusing. The plane can’t depart until everyone’s seatbelt is fastened.
It’s ironic; everyone knows the process, but their instincts prevent them from following it calmly. They behave like unrestrained animals, shoving against me while my body flexibly absorbs and reflects their pressure. My small frame can’t push back, so I find myself bent forward in front of seated passengers or those stowing their luggage. I straighten up and move forward as the space opens up again.
Finally, I manage to survive this chaotic crowd and reach my seat.
“52ABC.”