Paper Airplane
A Short Story
A gust of wind pushes back my hair, giving me the hairline of a man twenty years older. My hand raises up to shield my eyes from the sun’s burning gaze, and instead, I look ahead at the shimmering water in front of me. From this point, I can make out the city skyline across the bay.
Would it reach the other side? I imagine a morning jogger marching along, only to be interrupted by my airplane jabbing them from behind. Would they read it, a letter meant not for them?
I take a deep breath. Words splattered on a single page like a floor covered in spilled coffee compacted into the only delivery method I trust. My little airplane leaves my hand with a prayer. I watch it catch air, and fly.
Feelings only written, never spoken, glide through the breeze before diving downwards, sinking underneath the forming waves.
