As the plane got closer to Miami, I had this terrible feeling he

Host: The night pressed heavily against the airport glass, thick with the hum of engines and the murmur of departures. The runway lights bled into the dark, stretching like veins across the wet tarmac. Rain drizzled, soft, nervous, as if the sky itself was grieving.

Inside, Jack sat by a window, his reflection shimmering over the planes outside, a ghost suspended between here and somewhere else. His hands were clenched, his eyes grey and distant. Jeeny, beside him, watched quietly, her fingers wrapped around a cup of lukewarm coffee, her eyes heavy with empathy she couldn’t speak yet.

Host: The airport was half-empty, but the feeling of waiting filled every corner — a tension, a tremor, a heartbeat that had nowhere to go.

Jeeny: “You’ve been quiet all evening. Even for you.”

Jack: “You ever get the feeling that someone’s leaving, even before you know it for sure?”

Jeeny: “You mean — like death?”

Jack: “Yeah.”

Host: His voice was low, hollow, like metal cooled too fast. He didn’t look at her — just watched the planes taxi, their lights blinking, their bellies heavy with departures and regret.

Jack: “I was on a flight once. The pilot said we’d be landing soon, and I just… I knew. My father was dying. I hadn’t even gotten the call yet. But I knew. It was like his voice was in the cabin, saying goodbye.”

Jeeny: “Robin Gibb said something like that once — about feeling someone’s death mid-flight. Maybe it’s not so strange.”

Jack: “Strange? It’s madness. It’s grief bending logic. The brain finds patterns, even when there are none.”

Jeeny: “Or maybe it’s the soul finding its way to the heart before the world does.”

Host: A plane’s roar rattled the windows, splitting their silence. Jack flinched, his hand tightening around the armrest. Jeeny’s eyes softened — she saw that look of control barely holding together.

Jack: “You think there’s a signal, some mystical frequency connecting the living and the dying? There isn’t. It’s biology. Fear, memory, and a gut that’s been trained by pain.”

Jeeny: “But isn’t love just as much a frequency, Jack? Don’t tell me you’ve never felt someone’s presence when they were gone — like a whisper in the air that wasn’t really there.”

Jack: “I’ve felt loneliness. That’s not the same.”

Jeeny: “No — but it rhymes with it.”

Host: The lights in the terminal flickered, casting brief shadows over their faces. The sound of a flight announcement echoed, distant, almost eerie, as though the world was calling someone’s name just a moment too late.

Jeeny: “You said your father was dying. What did you feel, really?”

Jack: “Everything. Anger, because I couldn’t stop it. Panic, because I didn’t know how to reach him. And despair, because… maybe I’d been gone too long.”

Host: His eyes glistened, the reflection of a departing plane crossing his face like a flash of memory.

Jeeny: “That’s not madness, Jack. That’s connection — what Robin Gibb meant. When someone you love is dying, the space between you shrinks, even if you’re thousands of miles apart. The heart knows before the mind accepts.”

Jack: “You make it sound like telepathy.”

Jeeny: “No — it’s grief with intuition. The human soul doesn’t wait for the news to arrive. It just… knows.”

Host: A moment of silence. The rain intensified, tapping on the glass like fingers of the departed. A security guard walked past, his footsteps echoing — the sound of routine in a world that suddenly wasn’t.

Jack: “You really think death announces itself?”

Jeeny: “Sometimes. My grandmother used to say that the wind would change before someone went. I thought she was just superstitious, until the day she died, and the curtains moved, even though the window was closed.”

Jack: “That’s just memory looking for a sign. We build narratives so we can survive.”

Jeeny: “Then maybe that’s what faith is — the stories we build to make meaning out of loss. Isn’t that better than believing it’s all just neural noise?”

Jack: “Meaning doesn’t change reality. It just softens it.”

Jeeny: “And what’s wrong with softening it? The world is already hard enough.”

Host: A pause. The sound of luggage wheels rolled by, squeaking, fading. Somewhere, a baby cried, a reminder that life and departure often share the same room.

Jeeny: “You can call it illusion, but you still felt him, didn’t you?”

Jack: “Yeah.”

Jeeny: “Then what do you call that?”

Jack: “A memory too strong to die.”

Host: Jeeny nodded, her eyes glossed with understanding, her voice now gentle, like a warm wind through cold glass.

Jeeny: “Maybe that’s all life is, Jack. A string of memories that refuse to die. Maybe when we say we feel someone leaving, it’s not because they’re gone — it’s because they’ve become part of us.”

Jack: “So you think the dead don’t leave?”

Jeeny: “No one who’s been loved ever really leaves.”

Host: Jack’s hand trembled slightly as he set down his coffee. His eyes softened, the steel in them melting into fog.

Jack: “Then why does it still hurt so damn much?”

Jeeny: “Because love was never meant to be painless. The pain is the echo of what was real.”

Host: The announcement came again — “Flight 309 to Miami now boarding.” The words hung in the air, piercing and symbolic, as if summoning ghosts.

Jeeny: “Do you believe in signs, Jack?”

Jack: “I believe in timing.”

Jeeny: “Maybe they’re the same thing.”

Host: He stood, pulling his coat close, watching the rain slide down the window like tears on glass. Jeeny watched him too, her face soft, open, a quiet witness to a man still learning how to mourn.

Jack: “You ever think the sky knows what it’s doing when it rains?”

Jeeny: “I think it’s the world’s way of crying with us — of saying, ‘I know.’”

Host: For a moment, neither of them moved. The airport lights blurred, melting into gold and shadow, and the sound of a departing jet filled the space between them — a low hum, like a heartbeat fading into the distance.

Jeeny: “He’s still with you, you know.”

Jack: “Yeah,” he whispered, his voice breaking slightly. “But I wish he’d say something.”

Jeeny: “Maybe he already did. Maybe the silence is his way of saying goodbye.”

Host: The plane outside rose, its wings cutting through the rain, disappearing into the clouds — a silver shadow departing quietly into forever.

The camera pans back — Jack and Jeeny, two silhouettes framed by light, watching, waiting, breathing.

Host: “Perhaps that’s what love really is — a flight we never land from, a signal that flickers between hearts, across skies, even when one of them is gone.”

Host: The rain stops, and for a brief second, the world feels silent, suspended, as if listening to the heartbeat of memory itself.