My Unsent Message From The Sky

The turbulence on the flight home was violent, the kind that makes your stomach drop and the cabin scream. At the boundary between life and death, with my hands shaking, I dialed Griffiths number, desperate to hear his voice one last time, to leave him my final words.

He hung up on the second ring.

An automated text popped up a second later: Driving. On my way to pick up Leona.

In our five years of marriage, Ive flown eighty-six times. Before every single landing, I would send him a tentative text, asking if he might be free to pick me up.

His answer was always a variation of the same cold refrain:

Leonas flight is coming in too. I have to get her.

Eighty-six landings for me. Eighty-six airport pickups for Leona.

The worst of those times was during a torrential downpour last spring. I spent two miserable hours standing under the leaky awning of the arrivals terminal, dragging my heavy suitcase through puddles, unable to hail a single cab.

When I called him, sobbing softly, it wasn't Griffith who answered. It was Leona, her voice sweet and light over the static.

"Hey, Monica. Griffiths got his hands full loading my bags into the trunk right now. He cant really talk."

Now, the cabin around me was a nightmare of screams, falling oxygen masks, and weeping. The plane was spiraling out of control at thirty thousand feet. Through the window, the night sky was stained a violent, blinding orange as the left wing ruptured into flames.

My screen buzzed. A message from him.

Got Leona. What time do you land? I'll come get you.

I stared at the glowing words, a bitter, hollow laugh escaping my throat.

Five years. He was finally offering to pick me up.

But the fire was consuming us, pulling the metal bird down in a sickening, terminal dive.

He didn't know. My flight was never going to land.

"Grif, has Monica texted you back yet?"

The car was warm, the heater humming softly. Leona sat in the passenger seat, adjusting the collar of her wool coat.

Griffith kept his eyes on the traffic light ahead, his hands relaxed on the steering wheel.

"Not yet. She's probably just sulking."

I sat in the back seat, watching them in silence.

I wasn't sulking.

I was dead.

My physical self was still trapped in the smoking, shattered wreckage of a fuselage. But my soul, bound by some invisible, cruel tether, had drifted back hereinto the quiet luxury of Griffiths SUV.

Griffith picked up his phone, pressing the voice note icon.

"Monica, Im at the terminal. Which exit are you at?"

He hit send. The little voice message bubble sat quietly in our chat, unanswered.

The minutes ticked by, stretching into an uncomfortable silence. Outside, the wind whipped through the airport plaza, rattling the signs. Leona shivered and let out a soft sneeze.

"Do you think something's wrong? What if Monica got hurt?"

Griffith let out a dry, dismissive scoff.

"What could possibly be wrong? Shes just throwing a tantrum because I didn't pick her up first. She's playing hard to get."

He raised the phone to his mouth again, his tone sharpening.

"Monica, theres a limit to how much drama Ill tolerate. Leona and I are both sitting here waiting for you."

He sent it. It sank into the same quiet abyss.

With a cold, irritated sigh, Griffith shoved the phone into his pocket.

"Forget it. It's freezing out. Im taking you home first. Once she's done acting out, she'll make her own way back."

He had no idea I was sitting right behind him, watching the faint line of annoyance etched onto his profile.

On the drive back, the speakers played Leonas favorite indie-pop playlist, filling the car with cheerful, mocking melodies.

Thirty minutes later, the SUV pulled up in front of Leona's apartment building.

Griffith unbuckled his seatbelt, stepping out into the cold night to retrieve her bags. Leona wrapped her coat tighter around her shoulders, offering him a soft, grateful smile.

"Thanks for picking me up tonight, Grif. You should probably head back and get Monica now."

Griffith grabbed her suitcase, his voice flat.

"No need. Shes a grown woman. She has legs; she can hail an Uber."

I stood beside them on the damp pavement, watching this bitter little play.

Five years. Eighty-six flights. Not once did he offer me this simple courtesy.

While I had stood in endless, freezing taxi lines, shivering under the fluorescent airport lights, he was reserving his warmth, his gentleness, and his late-night drives for someone else.

He wheeled her suitcase past the glass lobby doors.

"Get some rest."

Leona took a step forward, wrapping her arms around his waist in a lingering embrace.

"Thank you, Grif. Honestly, since we were kids, you've always been there when I needed you most."

Griffith patted her back, his expression softening into something incredibly tender.

"Go on up. Get some sleep."

She turned and stepped into the elevator.

Griffith walked back out to the sidewalk, pulling out a pack of cigarettes. He struck a lighter, the small flame illuminating his face in the dark.

He pulled out his phone again and tapped on our chat. Still nothing.

The last shreds of his patience evaporated. He typed out a final, biting message:

If you're going to act like a child, Monica, don't ever expect me to pick you up again. When you're done throwing your fit, call a cab and get home.

He locked the screen with a sharp snap of his thumb.

Crushing the cigarette butt against the rim of a metal trash can, he climbed back into the driver's seat.

I sat in the passenger seat next to him, watching his hands grip the steering wheel as the engine purred to life.

Griffith, don't worry. I will never ask you to pick me up again.

I'm never coming home.

Despite the harsh words he had texted, Griffith drove home fast, weaving through the late-night traffic.

He was convinced I was already home. He was likely picturing me sitting on the living room sofa, arms crossed, staring sullenly into space. He was probably planning to throw a few half-hearted apologies my way, wait for me to soften, and put the whole thing behind us.

But when he unlocked the front door of our townhouse, the living room was enveloped in pitch darkness.

A flicker of irritation crossed his face.

Suddenly, his phone buzzed in his pocket.

He pulled it out quickly, a spark of anticipation in his eyes that instantly died when he saw the sender.

It was Leona.

Hey Grif, just unpacked and heading to bed. Did Monica ever get back to you?

Griffith typed back with one hand.

Not yet. She probably checked into some airport hotel to make a point.

Maybe you should go look for her? Leona replied. Its pretty late for a woman to be out alone. It can be dangerous.

Griffith let out a dry laugh.

Shes a grown woman. What could possibly happen to her?

He tossed the phone onto the kitchen counter and walked into the master bedroom. On the nightstand sat a silver picture frame.

It was a photo from our third anniversary. We were standing on a beach, smiling into the camera.

His gaze lingered on the photo for a long beat.

I floated right beside him, a foolish spark of hope flaring in my chest, wondering if he had finally remembered.

Once the clock struck midnight, it would be our fifth wedding anniversary.

But he didn't remember. The momentary pause was just the final sigh of his exhausted patience.

He pulled open the closet, grabbed his silk pajamas, and headed into the bathroom.

The rush of the shower filled the quiet room.

He didn't notice that the very bottom drawer of the wardrobe wasn't fully closed.

Peeking out from the gap was the corner of a small, pastel pink gift box.

It was the surprise I had painstakingly prepared for our fifth anniversary, meant to be opened at midnight.

Inside was a positive pregnancy test, alongside a pair of tiny, hand-knitted white baby booties.

If the flight hadn't torn apart in the sky...

If I had made it home...

I would have placed that box in his hands tonight.

But now, both I and the tiny, unformed life inside me were nothing but ash, scattered across a barren field miles away.

The water stopped.

Griffith stepped out onto the bedroom balcony, throwing a dark bathrobe over his shoulders. He unlocked his phone.

Still no missed calls. No texts.

The silence was grating on his nerves. He tapped out another message, his thumbs flying across the screen with aggressive force:

Monica, I don't have the energy for this running-away game. Tomorrow morning, Im taking Leona to that artisanal bakery upstatethe one with those brioche donuts she likes. Meet us there. Don't make me go hunting through every hotel lobby near the airport. It's embarrassing for both of us.

He threw the phone onto the outdoor lounge chair and went back inside to bed.

I stared at the messages sitting in the digital void, a profound sadness washing over my cold soul.

That bakery upstate.

It was my favorite place in the world. It was a forty-mile drive from the city.

I had begged him, so many times, to take me there on a lazy Sunday morning.

Its too far, Monica, hed always say, barely looking up from his laptop. It's out of the way. A waste of time.

But now, because Leona wanted those donuts, a forty-mile drive was no longer too far. It was no longer a waste of time.

Griffith pulled the duvet over himself and switched off the bedside lamp.

In the quiet dark, his breathing soon became slow and even.

He slept soundly, wrapped in the comforting delusion that when the sun rose tomorrow, everything would return to its proper place. That I would still be waiting, ready to be forgiven.

The next morning, Griffith tried calling me one last time before leaving the house.

It rang out, eventually dropping to voicemail.

Suppressing a sigh, he drove over to pick up Leona and headed toward the upstate bakery.

The morning commute was congested, bumper-to-bumper traffic stretching down the highway.

The radio was playing softly in the background, transitioning into the morning news broadcast.

"...Breaking news this morning. A commercial flight traveling from Chicago to New York experienced catastrophic failure late last night due to severe weather and structural distress. The aircraft crashed in a remote area upstate. Search and rescue operations are underway, but hopes are slim for the one hundred and thirty-two passengers and crew members on board..."

Leona gasped, her hand flying to her mouth as her face paled.

"Oh my god... thats awful. Grif, wasn't Monica flying back from Chicago last night? She wasn't on that flight, was she?"

Griffiths fingers tapped rhythmically against the leather of the steering wheel. His expression remained entirely unbothered.

"No way. She'd never book that one. It's a prime-time evening flightthe tickets are always double the price. Monica is too frugal for that."

I sat in the back seat, looking at the absolute certainty on his face.

He didn't know.

To see him a few hours earlier, to surprise him on the eve of our fifth anniversary, I had splurged. I had paid the exorbitant change fee to get onto that exact flight.

He pulled into the gravel parking lot of the bakery.

"Come on, let's get some food. We can't have our Leona starving."

The bakery was buzzing with the morning rush, smelling of fresh yeast and roasted coffee.

Griffiths eyes swept across the crowded tables, looking for my familiar face. He glanced down at his watch, his brow furrowing as his impatience mounted.

Usually, if we had a disagreement, I would have arrived early just to secure a table for him, desperate to smooth things over. But the minutes stretched on, and the seat opposite them remained empty.

"Shes really dragging this out," he muttered, checking his phone again.

He figured he'd grab a quick bite, drop Leona off, and then check a few airport hotels to find me.

But before their order arrived, his phone rang. It was his senior VP, sounding frantic about an urgent board meeting that required his immediate presence at the office.

Griffith had to rush through breakfast, drive Leona back to her apartment, and head straight to his downtown office.

The moment he walked into his suite, his executive assistant, Thomas, was waiting with a tablet in hand.

"Mr. Payne, the briefing materials for the emergency meeting are ready."

"Good." Griffith shrugged off his suit jacket, draping it over the back of his chair.

Thomas hesitated, looking slightly uneasy.

"Sir... is Mrs. Payne doing alright? I saw the news about the crash upstate this morning, and I knew she was traveling."

Griffith opened his laptop, not even looking up.

"Shes fine. She wasn't on that flight."

"Thank goodness," Thomas said, visibly relieved. He cleared his throat. "Also, today is your fifth anniversary. Would you like me to book a table at Le Jardin tonight?"

Griffith froze, the realization hitting him like a belated wave. It was their anniversary.

The tight lines around his mouth softened slightly.

No wonder I had been so angry last night. No wonder I had gone completely silent.

"Yes," Griffith said. "Book the corner table overlooking the river. And order a bouquet of red roses."

Thomas smiled and nodded, turning to make the arrangements.

Griffith picked up his phone again. Looking at our still-empty chat history, he let out a quiet sigh. He typed:

Monica, I'm sorry about last night. I should have picked you up.

Then, he sent the location of the French restaurant.

Seven o'clock tonight. Let me make it up to you, okay?

He assumed that once I saw the effort, the reservation, the roses, my anger would melt away.

He had always operated this way.

A cold shoulder, followed by a sweet gesture. He truly believed a fancy dinner and a dozen roses could erase months of neglect and quiet humiliation.

But he didn't know.

I would never make it to dinner.

By late afternoon, the sky turned a bruised, heavy grey. Rain was on the horizon.

A strange, low-level anxiety began to hum in Griffiths chest.

Then, a text from Leona popped up:

Grif! My project bonus just cleared! I want to buy you dinner to celebrate tonight. Are you free?

Griffith hesitated. He had plans to celebrate our anniversary tonight.

But then he reasoned that he could easily grab a quick drink with Leona first and still make it to the restaurant by seven.

Sure. Send me the place, he replied.

I watched him make the choice with a dull, familiar ache.

For five years, it had always been like this.

Whenever Leona called, no matter how sacred the day was to us, she was always his first priority.

After work, Griffith went straight to meet Leona at a trendy bistro downtown.

He sat across from her, listening patiently as she rambled about her career wins, clinking his glass against hers to toast her success.

It wasn't until his watch read 6:45 PM that he finally slid his jacket back on and stood up.

"I've got a commitment I can't push, Leona. I have to run. Bill's already taken care of."

On his way to the parking garage, he passed a luxury jeweler's boutique. He popped inside, hastily picking out a delicate diamond necklace as an anniversary gift.

Then, he got into his car and sped toward the French restaurant.

I sat in the passenger seat beside him, staring down at the velvet box on the console.

He had forgotten. Again.

I had a severe contact allergy to certain metal alloys, especially nickel.

Years ago, he had gifted me a similar necklace. To avoid hurting his feelings, I had forced myself to wear it for an entire evening. By midnight, my neck was covered in raw, weeping hives, and we ended up spending our anniversary in the ER.

That night, he had held my hand, green with guilt, swearing hed never be so careless again.

But now, the promise had dissolved from his memory entirely.

By the time he walked into Le Jardin, he was thirty minutes late.

He expected me to be sitting there, just like I had for the past four anniversaries, waiting patiently with a gentle, forgiving smile.

But the table was empty. He stood there, staring at the unoccupied velvet chair, momentarily stunned.

He dropped the gift box onto the white tablecloth with a sharp click and pulled out his phone, shooting off an irritated voice note.

"Monica, I booked the restaurant, I bought you a gift, and Im sitting here waiting. How much longer are you going to keep this up?"

A waiter approached him cautiously. "Sir, shall we bring out the steaks?"

"Give it ten more minutes," Griffith snapped, loosening his tie.

He was growing increasingly resentful.

He had cut his celebration with Leona short just to make it here, and yet I was still making him wait. What more did I want from him?

He didn't know I was sitting right across from him, staring at his frustrated face.

His eyes remained fixed on the restaurant's entrance, waiting for the door to swing open.

He was utterly convinced I would walk through it.

Just as I always did. Throughout our five years of marriage, all it took was a small crumb of affection for me to swallow my pride and sweep all my hurt under the rug.

The minutes crawled by as the rain outside turned into a torrential downpour, splashing heavily against the glass.

Griffiths brow furrowed deeper.

The silence since last night, paired with the background noise of the morning's crash report, began to fester in his mind, growing into a cold, prickly dread.

Suddenly, his phone vibrated violently against the wood table.

The screen lit up with my name: Monica.

The tension drained from Griffith's shoulders, and he let out a long, heavy breath of relief.

He swiped to answer.

"So, you're finally done playing hard to get? I knew you couldn't stay away for long."

But it wasn't my voice on the other end. It was the solemn, clinical voice of a man.

"Is this the family of Monica Payne? We are calling regarding the passenger flight from Chicago. The aircraft suffered a fatal crash last night.

"We need you to come to the precinct forensic center immediately to identify the remains."