My parents are both from Belfast. I have an Irish passport and a

Host: The airport terminal glowed with that familiar artificial brightness — neither day nor night, but something suspended in between. The announcement speakers hummed softly overhead, their voices echoing like ghosts of countless departures. Outside, planes crawled along the wet tarmac, their lights slicing through the mist.

Jack leaned against the glass, hands in his coat pockets, watching a plane taxi into the fog. His reflection looked older than he remembered — tired, but softened. Behind him, Jeeny approached, two steaming cups of tea in her hands. She handed him one, her fingers brushing his briefly, the warmth of the paper cup cutting through the chill.

She smiled, that knowing smile she always wore when she was about to quote someone.

"My parents are both from Belfast. I have an Irish passport and a British passport, and I go back every summer and every Christmas, and sometimes I pop over during the year to say hi, and, of course, celebrate St. Patrick’s Day." — Stella Maxwell

The words drifted between them — casual, but filled with the quiet gravity of identity.

Jack chuckled softly, taking a sip of tea.

Jack: “Two passports. Two homes. Two histories. Must be nice.”

Jeeny: (smiling) “You think so?”

Jack: “Sure. Means you can belong in two places at once.”

Jeeny: “Or in none.”

Jack: (glancing at her) “You sound like you’ve thought about this.”

Jeeny: “You forget I was born in Seoul, raised in Toronto, and live in London. I don’t even know which time zone my heart’s in.”

Jack: “So where’s home?”

Jeeny: (pauses) “Wherever the kettle’s on.”

Jack: (smiling) “That’s poetic. And sad.”

Jeeny: “It’s honest.”

Host: The intercom crackled — a voice announcing a delayed flight to Dublin. Somewhere behind them, a child laughed; somewhere else, someone cried quietly into a phone. Airports were like that — shrines to beginnings and endings, joy and loss occupying the same air.

Jack stared at the blinking lights on the runway.

Jack: “My dad used to talk about Belfast. Said it was a place built from contradictions — pain and pride, fight and forgiveness. Maybe that’s what two passports mean: living in the middle of everything unresolved.”

Jeeny: “Maybe. Or maybe it’s about claiming all the pieces of who you are, even the ones that don’t fit neatly.”

Jack: “You sound like my therapist.”

Jeeny: “Your therapist doesn’t make you tea.”

Jack: (grinning) “Fair point.”

Host: A pause. The sound of a jet engine grew and faded like a long sigh. The world outside blurred, streaked with rain and the faint reflection of city lights.

Jeeny looked out through the glass, her eyes distant.

Jeeny: “You know what I love about Stella’s quote? It’s simple. She’s not arguing about identity. She’s just... living it. That’s rare now.”

Jack: “Yeah. Everyone’s too busy defining themselves to actually be themselves.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. We turn identity into a debate instead of a heartbeat.”

Jack: “And the more we talk about belonging, the less we seem to feel it.”

Jeeny: “Because belonging isn’t political. It’s personal. It’s walking through an airport and realizing that no matter where you land, someone’s waiting to say, ‘Welcome home.’”

Host: Jack’s gaze softened. The words struck something inside him — something small, quiet, almost forgotten.

Jack: “You ever get tired of being between places?”

Jeeny: “No. I get tired of people asking where I’m from.”

Jack: (laughs) “You could just say ‘Earth.’”

Jeeny: “I tried that once. Guy thought I was high.”

Host: They both laughed, the sound warm against the sterile hum of the terminal.

For a moment, it didn’t matter where they were from — or where they were going. The moment was home.

Then the laughter faded, replaced by that familiar quiet that always crept in when they spoke about roots.

Jack: “You know, when I was younger, I thought identity was something solid — like a badge you earned. British, Irish, American, whatever. But it’s not. It’s... fluid. Like rainwater finding its way through cracks.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. You don’t choose where it flows. You just follow it.”

Jack: “So belonging isn’t a passport.”

Jeeny: “No. It’s an act of remembrance. Every cup of tea, every song you hum without realizing, every holiday you celebrate even when you’re far away — it’s all memory disguised as habit.”

Jack: “You really believe that?”

Jeeny: “I live that.”

Host: A boarding announcement echoed through the terminal — the flight to Dublin again. The voice was calm, neutral, but the sound carried a kind of poetry: the language of leaving.

Jeeny picked up her bag, slinging it over her shoulder.

Jeeny: “That’s me.”

Jack: “Dublin?”

Jeeny: “Just for the weekend. To see my aunt. To remember the smell of the sea.”

Jack: “You’re part Irish?”

Jeeny: (smiling) “A little by love, not by blood.”

Host: She turned to go, but paused, looking back at him — eyes warm, voice soft.

Jeeny: “You know, Jack, maybe we all belong in more than one place. Not because of passports — but because we leave pieces of ourselves behind wherever we love something. Maybe that’s what home really is — the map of everything you’ve ever cared for.”

Jack: (quietly) “That makes it sound endless.”

Jeeny: “It is.”

Jack: “And lonely.”

Jeeny: “Only if you stop visiting.”

Host: The final call for Dublin echoed. Jeeny smiled once more, then disappeared into the tide of travelers — people carrying luggage and stories, each one a universe in motion.

Jack stood by the window, watching her plane taxi down the runway. The engines roared, the wheels lifted, and she was gone — a silhouette swallowed by the night.

He stayed a moment longer, sipping the last of his now-cold tea. The airport lights flickered against the fog.

And as he turned to leave, Stella Maxwell’s words echoed faintly in his mind — not as geography, but as truth:

"I have an Irish passport and a British passport… and I go back every summer and every Christmas, and sometimes I pop over during the year to say hi."

Host: Maybe identity wasn’t a place after all.
Maybe it was rhythm — the coming and going,
the leaving and returning,
the act of remembering where your heart once felt safe.

And as Jack stepped into the drifting crowd,
he carried that rhythm with him —
not a passport, not a flag,
but the quiet certainty that home
wasn’t somewhere you found.
It was something you kept alive,
wherever you went.