Strangers in 14A and 14B

David checked his boarding pass again — seat 14A, window. He slung his bag into the overhead bin and slid into his seat, fastening his belt out of habit. The cabin buzzed with the usual pre-flight chaos — families settling in, flight attendants directing traffic, the distant hum of the engines waiting to roar to life.

The seat next to him remained empty. Good. A quiet flight.

David exhaled, shifting in his seat. He wasn’t unfriendly, exactly. Just… uninterested. Flights were a time to unplug, to exist in the nowhere between departure and arrival. No emails, no meetings, no forced conversations. Just peace.

Then, a voice.

"Excuse me, I think that’s me."

David glanced up. A woman in her late twenties, maybe early thirties, stood there, shifting her carry-on to one shoulder while clutching a book in the other hand. Jeans, a loose sweater, brown hair in a ponytail.

He stood, stepping aside so she could settle into 14B.

"Thanks," she said, buckling her seatbelt. She turned slightly toward him, tucking the book into the seat pocket. "You traveling for work or fun?"

David blinked. People didn’t usually initiate small talk with him. Or maybe he just made himself unapproachable enough that they didn’t try.

"Work," he said, already expecting the conversation to end there.

But it didn’t. And against his usual instinct, he found himself adding, "You?"

She smiled, like she hadn’t expected him to ask back. "Work. Kind of. I’m a photographer, but this is a personal trip."

A photographer. He glanced at her bag, now on the floor under the seat. "You shoot weddings or something?"

She laughed. "God, no. That’s a nightmare job. No offense if that’s your thing."

David smirked. "Not even close."

"Good," she said. "I do travel photography. Editorial stuff, mostly."

That should have been his cue to nod politely and look away. But instead, he found himself saying, "Sounds more exciting than my job."

She arched an eyebrow. "Which is?"

He hesitated. Normally, this was where he’d shut the door — keep things vague, uninteresting. But there was something about her that felt… unforced. Genuine.

"Consulting," he said. That was usually enough to end the conversation.

But she didn’t even blink. "For what?"

Again, the hesitation. And again, the surprising impulse to actually answer.

"Supply chain logistics," he admitted.

She grinned. "Yeah, okay. Your job definitely sounds less exciting than mine."

David laughed, shaking his head. "Brutal honesty. I like it."

"If it makes you feel better, my job’s not all tropical beaches and exotic markets," she said. "Mostly deadlines, terrible Wi-Fi, and chasing daylight for the right shot."

"Still beats boardrooms and PowerPoints."

"Fair enough."

The plane taxied, and soon they were airborne, the city below shrinking into a grid of lights. He should have leaned back, closed his eyes, let the conversation fade like most in-flight small talk.

But he didn’t.

"What’s your name, by the way?" she asked.

"David."

"Beverly," she said, offering her hand. He shook it, her grip firm and warm.

"So where’s this personal trip taking you?" he asked.

"Rome," she said. "I was supposed to go years ago. Kept putting it off. Figured it was time."

David nodded. "Been before?"

"Nope. You?"

"Once, years ago. Work trip, though. Didn’t see much."

She sighed. "See, that’s tragic. You go to one of the most beautiful cities in the world, and you spend it in a conference room."

"Not my choice," he said.

She gave him a teasing look. "Make better choices, David."

He chuckled. "Noted."

He should have been annoyed at himself by now. He didn’t do this. He didn’t trade jokes with strangers or get drawn into easy, flowing conversations. But something about her made it feel natural — like he hadn’t even decided to engage, it had just happened.

They lapsed into a comfortable silence. Beverly pulled out her book, and David leaned back against his headrest. He closed his eyes, tried to sink into the familiar quiet.

But he kept glancing at her. Curious.

After a while, she put the book down. "Okay, I have a question."

David looked at her, wary but intrigued. "Shoot."

"What’s the weirdest thing that’s ever happened to you while traveling?"

He considered brushing it off — Nothing much, just work stuff, — but instead, he actually thought about it.

Then a memory surfaced.

"Okay," he said. "A few years ago, I was in Tokyo for a conference. I went to this tiny bar, just a handful of seats. An old man sits next to me, strikes up a conversation. We start talking about baseball — he’s a huge fan. So am I. We get into this deep discussion about stats, players, everything. At some point, he asks where I’m from. I tell him Chicago. He lights up and says, ‘I played baseball there once.’ Turns out, he was a pitcher in the Japanese leagues back in the ’80s and played an exhibition game at Wrigley Field."

Beverly raised an eyebrow. "That’s pretty cool."

"Yeah. But here’s the weird part — he tells me about a specific game, a crazy extra-inning match. I realize I was at that game as a kid. I even remember seeing the Japanese team warming up before it started."

Her eyes widened. "No way."

David nodded. "Felt like one of those fate things. What are the odds?"

Beverly smiled. "I love that. Makes the world feel small, doesn’t it?"

David studied her. A few hours ago, he wouldn’t have shared that story. Wouldn’t have thought about it. But now, it felt like the most natural thing in the world.

"Yeah," he admitted. "What about you?"

She tilted her head, thinking. "Okay. Once, I was in Morocco, in this little mountain town…."

She told her story, and David listened — not just hearing, but really listening. And somewhere in the middle of it, he realized something-

He wasn’t just passing time.

He was enjoying this.

Eventually, Beverly stretched. "Well, David the Consultant, this has been fun. But I should probably get some sleep."

David nodded. "Yeah. Same here."

She pulled her sweater tighter around her shoulders, tilting her head back. "See you in Rome."

He smirked. "See you in Rome."

David closed his eyes, expecting the usual restless sleep of a long flight. But his mind kept circling back to coincidences, to fate, to the strange comfort of a stranger who, for a few hours, didn’t feel like one.

When he finally drifted off, it was with the quiet certainty that maybe — just maybe — this trip wouldn’t be forgettable after all.