T-7.5

It was supposed to get easier from here, but for Brianna, the descent was always the worst part. The memories and all the stories about planes crashing, about how pilots sometimes missed the runway or how landing gear failed and everyone cartwheeled into a spectacular ball of flame—they all lived in the sharpest corner of her brain, ready to leap out and stage a full musical at the slightest cue.

As soon as the pilot said they’d be “descending promptly” into Sydney, her pulse spiked again. The only good news was she had plenty of warning: the pressure change made her ears pop like firecrackers. She tried swallowing. Nothing. The next best thing was to clamp both hands around the armrests and brace for oblivion.

The lead flight attendant’s voice, nasal and buzzing, came over the PA. “Ladies and gentlemen, we are now making our final approach to Sydney International Airport. Please return seats to their upright position, stow whatever is still in your position, and fasten seat belts. Due to the earlier turbulence, please remain seated until we come to a full stop at the gate. Thank you for flying with us.”

The seat was doubling as a massage chair. She doubted she would stop vibrating for at least a week.

Noah seemed unbothered. He adjusted his seat upright, tugged at his cuffs, and gave her a sidelong glance. “We’re still going pretty fast,” he said, not loud but clear enough to cut through the chaos.

“Is that bad?” She meant to sound sarcastic. Instead, her voice came out pinched and thin.

He shrugged. “I mean, it’s probably fine. I’ve never actually seen a pilot go in hot, but—statistically, it happens.”

She was not reassured.

The pressure grew and grew. Her head felt stuffed with cotton, her stomach twisted into a Möbius strip. She fumbled in her jacket for the pill bottle, dry-swallowed another half-tab, and jammed the lid shut before the next drop hit.

Outside the window, the world finally appeared: a city glimmering in the far distance, nothing but water and cloud between them and the continent. Then the plane tilted sharply, and all she saw was ocean. She couldn’t help it—a tiny, desperate sound escaped her, a hiccup or maybe a sob.

“Don’t worry,” said Noah, eyes glued to the window. “They know what they’re doing.”

He said it like he meant it, which for some reason made her feel worse.

The pitch and roll only intensified. Every dip sent her heart to her throat; every lurch made the frame of the seat dig deeper into her back. At some point, the overhead bins rattled so hard that one popped open and someone’s suitcase threatened to make a break for it before a flight attendant, half-crawling up the aisle, slammed it shut.

Why had she ever agreed to this? Why had she listened to Asune—her one real friend at school, her “roommate” for this disaster cruise, the girl who promised her a fresh start, new memories, maybe even a chance to just exist for once, instead of being a problem to fix? Why did I think that could work?

Her vision tunneled in and out. The seat in front of her loomed huge, then seemed to recede miles away. The safety card’s cartoon illustrations mocked her. She squeezed her eyes shut and tried to remember her dad’s voice, the one time he said, “If you’re scared, pretend you’re already on the ground.”

She tried. She really tried.

Noah’s hand landed on her forearm, gentle but insistent. “Almost there,” he said. “You can count down. Seventy seconds, maybe less. Why don’t you just count with me.

She opened one eye. The city was close now, the houses and highways mapped out in clean lines beneath them. The plane rocked, but less violently. It felt like the world was pulling them in—like maybe, just maybe, they’d make it.

She counted. Sixty-eight. Sixty-seven.

She never made it past fifty.

Bri’s brain spun out. She pictured the plane’s nose shearing off, pictured the ball of fire, the slow-motion drift of bodies and bags through the broken hull. Every air disaster movie she’d ever seen replayed, starring herself in the lead. What would the investigators say, sifting through the debris? What would they find in her phone, in her luggage? Her mind riffed through last texts, unfinished apologies, the playlist she’d left on for this exact trip.

Maybe she started muttering, or maybe the sound was just in her head, but Noah leaned in, giving up on counting and, with absolutely zero transition, said: “Did you know Kureiji, the idol, from MINE is going to be on the cruise?”

The abrupt shift snapped her out of the doom spiral for a full two seconds. “Who?”

“Kureiji. The idol. MINE.” Noah said it like it was obvious, which it probably was, if you followed Japanese pop culture.

She tried to picture the guy. Maybe she’d seen him on a billboard once, perfect teeth and eyeliner, always making a peace sign or a finger heart. She made a noise that was probably “huh.”

“He’s not just an idol. He was in that weird horror drama last year, the one with the doppelgängers. Rumor is his agency’s sending him as a PR stunt. First-class, obviously.”

Bri tried to process the idea of sharing air with a celebrity. It felt like the opposite of her life. “Why are you telling me this?”

Noah shrugged, a smile barely visible behind his mask. “Thought you’d like to know. You seem more indie, but he’s actually got range. Also, thinking about something stupid is better than thinking about dying.”

She blinked. Fair point. She pictured the idol in first class, unbothered by the turbulence, probably posting a live video for his millions of followers, sipping designer water and prepping for some next-level drama on deck. It was almost funny.

“Thanks,” she said. “I guess.”

Noah nodded, satisfied. “There’s a rumor the ship is so big you can get lost for days. Bet he won’t even have to see his Japanese fans unless he wants to.”

It was a tiny sliver of normal in the madness. She clung to it.

Then, with no warning, the wheels hit the runway. One. Two. Three. Four. Five times, hard, like the pilot had miscounted and was making up for it all at once. The force rattled her teeth and sent her stomach up into her lungs. She squeezed her eyes shut and didn’t open them again until the motion finally, mercifully, stopped.

For a moment, there was nothing but stunned silence. No cheers, no applause, just a cabin full of people unsure whether to believe they were really, truly alive.

The plane rolled, slowed, made a long lazy turn as if it, too, was shaking off the shock. Then the familiar ping of the PA system, and the same bored voice as before: “Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to Sydney. For your safety and the safety of those around you, please remain seated with seat belts fastened until the aircraft has come to a complete stop at the gate. We thank you for flying with us, and we hope your journey was… memorable.”

Someone in the back snorted. Bri felt a strange laugh bubble up, too, and for the first time all flight, she didn’t feel embarrassed about it. Her legs tingled. Her chest ached. But it was over.

She looked at Noah. He was, for once, looking straight ahead, like he might be afraid to meet her eyes now that the crisis was past. His white mask was back in place, and his hands were laced in his lap. He looked smaller, somehow.

The plane inched toward the terminal. Every second was a small eternity. People started to stand, ignoring the warnings, only to be barked at by a flight attendant with a voice like a cheese grater.

Bri tried to stand, failed, and instead leaned forward, let her forehead rest against the blue seat in front of her. She waited. And waited. When the seatbelt sign finally chimed off, the chaos restarted—bags falling, people yelling, someone already on their phone, broadcasting to the world that they’d survived.

She felt her stomach revolt. With zero ceremony, she opened the bag she’d been clutching and finally gave in. It was almost a relief. When she was done, she wiped her mouth on a napkin, closed the bag, and let herself sag back into the seat.

Noah looked over, eyes creased in a smile. “Welcome to Australia,” he said, almost kindly.

She didn’t say anything. She didn’t have to.