The airport terminal carried the layered scent of coffee, disinfectant, and something harder to describe—restlessness that seemed to linger in the air.
That was the first thing I noticed as we stood near the security checkpoint at Hartsfield–Jackson, watching people move quickly past us with rolling suitcases and distracted expressions. Some held half-finished drinks, others checked their phones as they walked. The fluorescent lights above us felt too bright, casting everything in sharp, unforgiving detail. A television mounted near the ceiling played a muted report about traffic on I-85 and an approaching storm system, its sound blending into the background noise of announcements and footsteps.
It should have felt routine.
Another Thursday evening. Another trip for work.
Yet something inside me felt off, though I couldn’t explain why. I was tired in a way that had nothing to do with sleep. It was the kind of exhaustion that builds quietly over time, the result of carrying responsibilities without pause, without anyone asking if you needed a moment to rest.
My husband, Quasi, stood beside me, composed as always. His gray suit was pressed with precision, his shoes polished to a mirror shine, his leather briefcase resting comfortably at his side. He carried himself with ease, as though everything in life followed a clear and controlled plan. The cologne I had given him for his birthday still lingered faintly, familiar and comforting in a distant way.
To anyone watching, we likely appeared as a family that had everything in order.
