Tethered between the seemingly magic phenomena that is flying and the dread of how fast you feel you could fall into the ground.

My brother tells me I have nothing to be worried about, despite what the pilot describes as a storm brewing off the coast of south florida. I sit alone in the exit row, walking the suspension bridge between my two polarized headspaces I exist in while flying. I seek comfort in those around me. Mouths open, sleeping leaned up against the window, no fear from what I can see.

There is an odd sense of comfort I find in imagining people doing the things that I do. A parasocial solution I have found for myself to complete daily tasks that seem, at times, impossible. Charli must fly all the time and I know she would make it look easy, effortless if you will. I imagine her sleeping. I imagine her drinking champagne. I picture my brother in aviation school and how he flys in the afternoons on his own volition. I picture a plane in jello as a girl on TikTok explains to me the pressure of air and why I should never be worried of falling out of the sky. I see green jello jiggling with a jelly bean inside, I am the jelly bean jiggling but not falling, despite the vision of plummeting being so clear and still so possible. I'm not sure if learning more about the subject would make me feel better or worse. I want to trust my brother and jello girl, as they seem fairly informed, but the vividness of dreams outweighs reality from time to time. I'll stick to picturing Charli XCX peacefully resting and posted in a plane, thousands of feet in the air as I jiggle like the jelly bean. We go up, we go down. If she can do it so effortlessly, Why Can’t I?

I find comfort in the conspiracy that maybe I'm not in the air at all. Like how they slip through a plastic tube in Now You See Me and like magic, trick someone into thinking they were on a plane while they never left the ground. Maybe I am just in a plane simulator just looking at a loop of greenery and tiny model houses. Maybe every place I've ever been was made just for me. This is likely a projection of my own individuality complex in thinking everything is my own. I’m thinking artists made their work for me, musicians record their albums with only one girl in mind. No way you are listening to Liz Phair like I do. Jealousy, jealousy. Liz Phair flies into Chicago at night and pictures herself in a Galaxy 500 video. I fly into marsh harbor picturing Liz Phair picturing herself in that video and somehow I am safer. A way of coping and seeking comfort in solidarity of experiences. With my hands propped equally between arm rests, I pray. Dear Liz, dear Charli.

the effect of “brat summer” on ig baddie “mean girls”

I wish I was so small. I could fit into your pocket and listen to all of the conversations you tell back to me first hand. Being small would save lots of things. I wouldn’t have to pay to go on an airplane. I would walk in the shadow of your shoe and no one would see. Or I could be shot out of a tiny canon and fly with a parachute across a few states and then ride in a stranger's car that was heading your way. I was told to go west, but all I want to do is go east! They would talk about regular things and get gas and gossip and pass the time perfectly. I would tell it back to you and you would be so happy to see me. Then I could be everywhere and with you, as I was suppose to be.

Even after it was said and done, you drop off a bag of denim at my door,


full of the pairs you once praised, now tossed out and cycled through. You are on a constant search for the best fit, the perfect pant. They look nice, I say, though they mostly look the same to me. You did always have good taste, this is undeniable. So when you ask me if I would like any of your leftovers, I say yes. It is sweet to me, holding on to your leftovers. This clothing, christened with your sweat and wear, once held close, all belongs to me now, and it is my job to keep it safe.


I wash your jeans inside out in cold water.


A waist once bunched and held up tightly by your belt now sits low on my hips. Frayed edges drag at my ankles, torn and ripped from the roughness of sandpaper. I must preserve the way this fits using a cold wash cycle, not to disrupt the state you left them in. I am responsible for postponing the decay of fibers that you have woven yourself into. The same fibers I now walk in. The same fibers in the washer, spinning, spinning, spinning. I remember you telling me you are the most beautiful in the morning each day as I dress. The spinning makes me dizzy. You remind me of a lot  of things.


I lay your jeans flat to dry.


Staring at damp fabric, I wait. I have gone to lengths to care for reminders you have burdened me with, going so far as to preserve them. Here lies a folded up stack of jeans I must now refrain from wearing. I watch them decay. Your leftovers rot in my closet, so I move them to the garage. Out of sight out and occasionally out of mind. But, I think of you when I make indirect eye contact with the sun and when the sky is clear but cool enough to wear a sweater.


And I'm not looking forward to following through, but it's better than always running back into you.


The pile ages, now a relic of my avoidance. Wrinkling and slouching in the corner. Serving as a reminder that I need to take care of a few things. What’s the rush? I am just getting my things in order. Pass the time till the time is right, pass the time till the time is right. I recite this to myself like a prayer. Passing the time is an excuse I use in order to keep waiting. An excuse to continue letting things rot. I must have something better to do.

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