The airport smelled like stale pretzels, stress, and the faint despair of delayed flights. I was somewhere between Gate Who-Knows and Terminal Who-Cares, dragging a suitcase that had lost a wheel and my will to live. All I knew was I had ten minutes to make a connecting flight to Somewhere Better, and I was on the hunt for Terminal 13—which, according to every map, directory, and airline agent, did not exist.
“Try behind the vending machine,” a janitor mumbled, like he was giving directions to Narnia. I stared. He shrugged and went back to mopping what might’ve been either gum or someone’s soul.
Turns out, he wasn’t joking. Terminal 13 was behind the vending machine. And it was massive. A whole town, really. Escalators rolled by like lazy conveyor belts. People were barbecuing outside the boarding gates. A kid zipped past on a scooter. Someone had a golden retriever named Pilot.
I blinked. This was not an airport terminal. This was a municipality.
A woman in yoga pants handed me a brochure: “Welcome to Terminal 13: A Transitional Living Experience.”
Great.
I missed my flight. Obviously. Apparently, flights in Terminal 13 come and go like metaphors. I was told the next one would arrive after I “found a resolution.” Whatever that meant. Meanwhile, I could get a manicure, therapy, or join a drum circle that met at Gate 13B.
And that’s when I saw him.
Standing at a smoothie stand, wearing the hoodie—grey, frayed, a relic of adolescent romance and body spray.
Jordan.
My first love. The original heartbreak. The reason I overthink text messages.
He hadn’t aged a day since high school. Not one wrinkle. Not one sign of taxes or regret. Just that smug, crooked smile.
“Funny seeing you here,” he said.
I blinked. “You’re not real.”
He grinned. “Define ‘real.’”
Classic Jordan.
We walked. Talked. Sat under a gate that had been turned into a café named Déjà Brew. He asked about my life. I gave him the edited version. He laughed like he used to—too loud, too easily. We reminisced about that time we skipped class to watch the clouds and promised to never grow up.
I almost forgot he was probably a hallucination generated by airport-induced psychosis. Or overpriced smoothies.
Then he took my hand.
“Maybe this is our second chance.”
And I wanted to believe him. I really did. But something flickered. Literally. His left eye glitched. Then his hoodie looped like a video buffering in hell.
“Wait—did you just… rewind?”
He froze.
From the corner, a woman scoffed. “Ugh. The Ex-Boyfriend Algorithm is still in beta.”
“Sorry, the what now?”
She pointed to a screen:
WELCOME TO TERMINAL 13
Where Your Unresolved Emotions Find You.
I looked back at Jordan. He was still smiling that tragic, teenage smile. I opened my boarding app. A notification blinked:
Delete Emotional Luggage? [Y/N]
I hit Y.
Jordan dissolved into static and the faint scent of Axe body spray.
The terminal shifted. A door appeared. Terminal 14. A flight to Somewhere Better was now boarding.
As I stepped onto the plane, someone beside me asked, “First time leaving Terminal 13?”
I nodded.
She smiled. “Took me seven layovers.”
We buckled in. The plane rumbled down a runway lined with discarded what-ifs and half-finished apologies.
As we lifted off, I swear I felt it—
My carry-on? Lighter.