The landing's that moment when my brain tells me everything could totally go south, just like my New Year's resolutions. I've never really been friends with planes.

The guy sitting next to me, a chill forty-something in a plaid shirt, would be the perfect guinea pig for my airborne freak-outs. While I'm over here fighting not to hyperventilate, he's deep in a book called How to Optimize Your Personal Finances. Me? I'm wondering how I can optimize my chances of survival. Every little bump has me thinking we're about to turn into a flaming comet.

I always come up with some pretty wild thoughts during the flight, like what if the plane just decided to crash because I'm on board? Like, "Hey, Laëlle's here, time to just give up."

Or what if the jet fuel decided to go on strike, or the pilots just bailed on the cockpit? What if the left engine decided it was time to retire? Or the wings just bailed out, like, "We've done our part, good luck with the rest, people."

And of course, there's always that paranoid little voice in my head: what if those people over there aren't tourists, but actual rookie terrorists?

My seatmate finally looks up, probably because he's heard my breathing get a little too loud. He raises an eyebrow.

"You good?" he asks, in that polite-but-worried tone, like I might be some kind of wild animal ready to bite.

I force a smile. "Yeah, yeah, I'm fine. I mean... as fine as you can be in a flying tin can hurtling toward a runway that's way too small, you know?"

The captain's announcement breaks the silence: "Ladies and gentlemen, we're beginning our descent into Boston. Local temperature: a pleasant 15 degrees Celsius. Please fasten your seatbelts and return your tray tables. Thank you for flying with us."

"Thank you for flying with us." Like it's all over already! I glance out the window. The lights of Boston are twinkling below, and for a split second, it's beautiful. Then the plane shakes a little.

"Normal turbulence," the pilot says cheerfully.

Normal? Maybe for him. Me? I'm already drafting my mental will. Everything goes to my cat. He deserves it all.

My seatmate tries to calm me down:

"You know, statistically, flying is the safest form of travel."

I stare at him, pale-faced. "Maybe, but statistically, I'm also on this plane, so, you know, anything could happen."

He doesn't have a response. I sink back into my nervous silence, my fingers digging into the armrest.

"Boston's beautiful this time of year," my seatmate says after a pause, in a friendly tone. "You'll love it."

I don't reply. Not because I'm rude, but because I'm too busy imagining all the ways this landing could go wrong. The landing gear refusing to come down. A collision with a suicidal bird. Or worse: a pilot who forgets where the brakes are.

And then there's the whole thing with the ocean. Boston is literally right by the water. Which means we're flying over water before we hit the runway. Who thought this was a good idea? Who said, "Hey, what if we land planes on a strip of asphalt surrounded by freezing water, just to add a little suspense?"

My seatmate closes his book and tries to strike up a conversation: "Is this your first time in Boston?"

"No. But it might be my last."

He laughs. I'm not joking.

The plane starts descending. A bump. Then another one.

I take a deep breath and try to cling to this fake serenity they talk about in self-help magazines. "Breathe in through your nose, out through your mouth," they say. But my nose is blocked by fear, and my mouth just wants to scream at the landing: "WE'RE ALL GONNA DIE!"

Finally, the plane hits the runway. A brutal jolt makes me jump. I bite back a scream, but my seatmate, of course, starts clapping. Applauding?

"See? Perfect," he says, grinning.

The wheels screech against the pavement, and a wave of relief rushes through me... followed by another wave of worry. We haven't slowed down yet. I scan the window for any sign that everything's okay. The airport buildings are getting closer, but at this speed, we might as well be crashing into them like a bowling ball on pins.

The guy, clearly happy to see me relieved, leans back in his seat.

"See? Nothing to worry about."

I shoot him a skeptical look. Easy for him to say, he wasn't spending the whole flight imagining disaster-movie scenarios.

Finally, the plane slows down, and I feel my muscles relax, slowly. Not entirely, though, because I'm still convinced that some last-minute plot twist could happen, like an engine exploding at the last second.

We come to a full stop on the tarmac, and the pilot announces the incredible news:

"Welcome to Boston. The outside temperature is 15 degrees Celsius, and we ask that you remain seated until the aircraft has come to a complete stop."

I allow myself a sigh. I made it. Well, I'm not out of the plane yet, but at least we're on the ground. My fingers are still gripping the armrest, and it takes a conscious effort to let go. I shake them a little to get some blood flowing again.

The passengers start to move, grabbing their carry-ons from the overhead bins. I stay still, as if the slightest movement could awaken some curse and send the plane spiraling out of control again.

My seatmate stands up, putting on his jacket. Before leaving, he gives me one last smile:

"Next time, try a good book. It helps."

I mumble a vague "thanks," too exhausted to explain that the only thing that would've really helped would've been a direct teleportation.

When it's my turn to get off, I drag myself down the aisle, still trembling. The airport lights blind me as I step out of the tunnel. Boston. Solid ground. People walking around like they don't worry about falling from the sky. I could kiss them.

With my heart pounding so hard I feel like everyone can hear it, I make my way through the airport. It's always the same in places like this: people running, signs held high, laughter, hugs, and then... those couples. The ones kissing like it's the end of the world.

I grimace at one of them, practically pressed up against a pillar. But I can't help smiling. There's something comforting about seeing people happy.

My eyes scan the crowd again. Every face is a hope and a disappointment. None of them are familiar, yet I can't stop myself from murmuring:

"Where are you, Dad?"

Those words hurt, as always. A sharp sting deep in my chest. I picture a tall, imposing man, maybe with a kind smile, a gaze I'd recognize in an instant. Maybe he's not even here. Maybe he'll never be here.

And then I see him. Well, not him, but... a guy standing off to the side, dressed in jeans from head to toe. Pants, jacket, even a denim hat, and to top it all off, a pair of Converse that I think are actually pretty cool. He's holding a sign in front of him. In clumsy uppercase letters, it says: LAËL SIMONE.

I stop dead in my tracks. My brows automatically furrow. Is that supposed to be for me? This guy, with his laid-back vibe and handwriting that clearly shows zero effort, is supposed to be my... what? My guide? My driver?

I drag my luggage over to him. He doesn't budge an inch, staring at some imaginary point to his right. When I stop in front of him, he finally looks down at me, one eyebrow raised like he's saying, So, you're the one?

I reach into my purse, pull out a black marker, and without a word, I add a "LE" at the end of "LAËL" on his sign. I put the marker back in my bag, cross my arms, and stare him down, my gaze sharp with disapproval.

"If we're going to start like this, we might as well do it right," I say flatly.

He raises an eyebrow, then a teasing smile spreads across his lips.

"You're picky, huh?"

I cross my arms, raising an eyebrow right back.

"No. I just like people to spell my name correctly."

He laughs softly, and I realize I should probably be angry. But instead, something about his laugh actually calms me a little.

"Welcome to Boston, Laëlle Simone," he says, nodding towards my luggage. "Do you want me to take that?"

I eye him warily. "You're...?"

"Me? Just the guy who's taking you to your dad."

''Where is my dad?''

He looks at me for a moment, like he's deciding whether to give an honest answer or make a joke. Then, without saying a word, he hands me the sign. I squint as I grab the cardboard, confused.

"What?"

"He's at home," he says simply, as if that explains everything.

He doesn't wait for me to react. He grabs my luggage like it's weightless, turns on his heel, and starts walking away with a casual stride.

"Hey!" I exclaim. "What are you doing?"

He doesn't answer, just glances over his shoulder. With a tilt of his head, he gestures for me to follow.

"Come on, let's go."

"Hey! You didn't even tell me your name!"

He keeps walking without looking back. I have no choice but to follow, reluctantly tightening the strap of my bag over my shoulder. If this guy's trying to kidnap me, he's going to regret it.

The car's been driving for a while now, but I'm still lost in the view of the city spreading out in front of me. Boston's streets, this mix of old and new, are wrapping around me. I don't know why, but my heart... my heart's kinda buzzing with excitement. It's silly to say, but it feels like something big is waiting for me here. Something amazing. Something juicy. Something I'll never forget. Like the last breath of fresh air before the storm. The start of a chapter I won't have enough words to describe.

I notice my driver coughing a little. A little too much, actually. Like he's trying to get my attention. The look I give him is anything but friendly, but he doesn't seem to care.

"It's funny," he says, almost amused, "your dad told me you're a chatterbox. He said during the ride, I'd probably wanna plug my ears."

I roll my eyes, but I don't say anything. I let my eyes drift back to the city. No point in starting a pointless conversation with a guy who won't even tell me his name. But this guy won't let it go.

"So, how was your flight?" he asks.

I let out a sigh, resting my head against the back of the seat.

'' Awesome," I reply, without really thinking, my voice flat and unconvincing.

He frowns, his expression darkening just a bit. He leans back slightly, as if trying to get my attention, but I'm still in my own world. He doesn't seem to get it.

"But, your father told me you hated flying."

I raise an eyebrow when I hear that, then without turning to him, I say:

"See, you don't know me, and you definitely don't know my father."

The guy doesn't answer right away, but I can tell he's trying to process what I just said. Then, with a small pout, he shoots back:

"Well, maybe I grabbed the wrong Laëlle… Because I was supposed to pick the Laëlle without the 'Le' at the end."

"Well, congratulations, you found the Laëlle with the 'Le' at the end," I reply, my tone playful but sharp.

I start to feel the exhaustion settling in, like my muscles have decided to turn into mush. A wave of nausea hits me, like everything that just happened was some weird dream, and my body's trying to wake me up—just not yet, not right now. My eyes, though, can't look away from the city rushing by. And then, without even realizing it, the car slows down, and a house comes into view. Big, imposing, surrounded by a little garden I assume is well-kept. It looks... ordinary, almost boring in its simplicity.

The car stops, the engine cuts off with a sharp click, and suddenly, everything feels way too quiet. I stare out the window, not really seeing anything, just watching the invisible comings and goings of people behind curtains.

My driver makes a motion like he's about to turn toward me.

"I'm Nicolas," he says. "Nick, to my friends."

I don't look at him. The fatigue, the nausea, all of it is creeping up on me too much, and he'd better not see me like this.

"Nice to meet you, Nicolas," I say, my politeness a little too cold to sound real.

I hear a small chuckle he tries to hide, like I just said something really funny.

"You can call me Nick,it's okay."

"I'm not one of your friends," I snap back, with zero warmth in my voice.

He laughs a little, and his laugh hits me like an uncomfortable vibration, like a sound too loud in an empty room.

"Even so," he insists, "I'd still prefer if you called me Nick."

For a moment, I really felt kind of... thrilled. Almost euphoric. And now? Now, it all seems to be crumbling. The adrenaline from arriving is gone, and all that's left is this heavy wave of nausea following me around.

"You can go ahead," Nicolas says. "Your stuff will follow."

"Thanks," I murmur before pushing open the car door, slamming it shut behind me, and heading toward the gate.

As my fingers touch the cold metal of the gate, I catch myself thinking that maybe all of this is just a dream. Maybe I'll wake up any second now, in my room, with the curtains drawn, the morning light barely touching the floor. But no. The gate is real. I push it open and step through.

I walk toward the door like I'm heading straight for a cliff. I've imagined this moment hundreds of times, in all kinds of dramatic versions. But now, right here, the thought of taking that last step makes me feel like my heart is trying to burst out of my chest and run away.My fingers tremble slightly.

Is he going to open the door totally drunk, a bottle in his hand, with the sour stench of regrets trailing behind him? Or worse, is he going to throw himself at me, crying, squeezing me in an embrace and apologizing for things I don't want to hear?

I close my eyes, take a deep breath, and ring the doorbell. The sound feels too loud, like an alarm going off in a sacred place. My heart gives a little jolt, and before I can decide to run away, the door swings open.

He's there. My dad. Barry Simone. Flesh and blood. Except... he's got this look on his face that I can't quite place. He's not happy to see me, not angry, not surprised, but maybe just... confused. Like he forgot he even had a daughter and my sudden appearance just woke up that piece of info. His gaze flickers, like he's trying to work out the equation of me showing up, and it just won't add up.

"Hey," he finally says, his voice slow and dragging like he's trying to come up with something to say, but no internal software wants to cooperate.

I don't know why, but that "hey" hits me like a punch. It's not warm, it's not cold, it's just... empty. My stomach, already not on its best behavior, decides that's enough.

Suddenly, it rises up, fast, brutal, and I don't even have time to warn anyone. I double over and throw up right in front of him. Graceful, right?

Then everything goes blurry. My vision smears like someone spilled water on a fresh painting. My body stops responding, my legs feel like they're made of cotton. A heavy heat rises in my head, and it feels like everything is about to explode.

I wobble, and just before the complete darkness swallows me, I catch one last thing: my dad rushing toward me.

He looked panicked, which, in another situation, might've given me a twisted kind of satisfaction. But right now, all I could think of before the ground hit me was: Please, don't step in my puke.