A soft chime. The PA system exhales with a crackle before speaking. 

Good evening, passengers, and 

welcome aboard Flight QTR955. 

Please ensure your seatbelt is securely fastened. 

Stow all carry-on 

memories beneath the seat 

or within overhead compartments. 

Pack lightly — heavy luggage may slow ascent. 

As we prepare for takeoff, take one

last look out the window. 

 

This is the moment 

before memory begins — 

Daily messages become weekly, 

become monthly. 

You start replying slower, 

leaving one blue tick unread. 

Avoiding video calls because 

Bahasa doesn’t flow the way 

it did when you used to sit at the dinner table, 

watching shadows pass through 

the wood-slatted garage door, itching 

to ask the next person to open the gate

“Sudah makan belum?” 

You’ll revert to saying 

“my homestay parents” 

instead of “my parents,” 

as if family has an expiration date. 

As if life below were just a story to be retold. 

 

You once called this place home. 

You learned how to order kopi, apologize, 

and disappear among strangers. 

You memorized the rumble of motorbikes, 

of bumps in the backstreets. 

You made friends you promised to visit, 

though we know “visit” is polite fiction. 

You wonder if the baristas at your favorite coffee shop 

will notice your absence tomorrow —

one less hot matcha latte to make,

one less smoked beef croissant to warm up.

If the pull-up bars in the park 

will imprint shadows of your fingers in its rust. 

If the next person to live in your room

will keep the curtains drawn — 

the ones on the window facing into the kitchen — 

Or crack them open like you did, just 

enough to catch the shadow of movement 

of someone to share ayam geprek with. 

 

At landing, have your passport ready, 

its blank pages to be inked 

with dissonant stamps. 

Remember, customs cannot 

process yearning. 

 

When you tell them what it was like — 

how you learned to dream in another language — 

they will smile, ask if the food was good, 

and call for the next in line. 

 

You will tuck your stories away 

(of rain that drummed down on 

the hood of your flimsy poncho,

making cold tap water warm 

against your skin; of Gojek drivers 

who wordlessly switched 

the AC on when the sweltering 

heat caused your glasses to fog up)

Like contraband you’ve failed to declare. 

 

We will be dimming the cabin lights shortly. 

Look out once more, if you must: 

Watch the city shrink to 

winding roads and tin rooftops, 

And the room with the window 

that faced only inside. 

Soon, it’ll fold itself beneath the clouds. 

You may close your window, 

shut your eyes, and sleep. 

But don’t count on a good rest. 

 

Ladies and gentlemen, we are now 

entering a zone of turbulence.

Return to your seats 

and fasten your seatbelts. 

Dream of autumns

where leaves don’t fall, 

group chat planning a Friendsgiving 

that you won’t be back in time for. 

Dream of winters 

with a glaring sun, 

the only Christmas tree basking in 

the fluorescent shimmer 

of a Disney-themed mall. 

Dream of springs 

where rains bruise, 

do April typhoons 

bring May flowers? 

Remain calm — this moment will pass. 

Your dreams are just the Malarone, 

or so you’ll tell them when they ask 

how your flight was. If you say 

the plane shook,

and rattled, and sobbed,

they’ll smile, 

half-pity, half-I-told-you-so,

and say, “Thank God 

I never had to do that.”

 

Now, return your seat into upright position,

fold your regrets into your tray,

and ensure your memories 

are properly stowed beneath 

the seat in front of you.

We remind you to check the seat pocket 

for anything you’ve left behind:

a language you almost mastered,

a bucket list with its empty checkboxes,

the you who thought coming back

would mean normalcy.

 

In a few minutes, you will feel

the soft jolt of arrival.

Do not mistake it 

for belonging;

the air may smell familiar,

but it has forgotten your name.

 

Checked baggage from Flight QTR955 

will be available at Baggage Claim 7.

Like you, some items 

may have shifted in transit.

Report any damages to the nearest counter,

though replacements are not guaranteed.

 

So take your dented suitcase,

load it into the car you no longer drive,

onto the slow pulse of the 101,

and to the house that doesn’t quite look

like how it did in your memory.

Bask in the familiarity of your bed —

memory foam with silk sheets.

When your body wakes 

before dawn in one city, 

chasing daylight halfway around the world, 

you’ll remember:

you carry two clocks within you. 

Neither is set quite right. 

 

On behalf of the flight crew, we thank you

for loving something that could never stay. 

This is Flight QTR955, departing for home 

(though for you, by now, “home” is plural). 

It is an honor to carry you between selves.

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