"When the world is making promises that it can't keep; You alone your only friend; Breathe out, breathe in, breathe out again"

Sitting on an airport bench in a bustling terminal, I resign myself to a semi-spontaneous overnight in Baltimore. My carry-on luggage, game-changing butt bolster, and neck pillow crowd me like a trench as I peruse the internet for a reasonably-priced hotel stay. Around me, throngs of teenagers munch on fast food and laugh with their friends, while a smaller group of adults plot a strategy. It must be a school trip.

Elsewhere, parents sit with their children. The grownups appear exhausted and stressed, hanging on to just a single thread of their sanity through a “going with the flow” mentality. Their offspring bound with pent-up energy. Singletons and couples alike pace between gates hoping for resolution. Meanwhile, airport employees maintain resilient grins as they hold their forts.

My search is fruitless. Decently-priced accommodations that are within miles of the airport show unreliable shuttle services, according to the horrendous reviews. If I leave this fortified sanctuary, another trek through security is imminent. The once promising nightlong escape nose-dives. Six hours away, becomes maybe four. Maybe.

While engrossed in a much-needed sigh, I shudder. The memories come back. A deserted airport in Chicago. Stranded. No cot. No blanket. No pillow. No jacket. Indoor temperatures comfortable enough for transit, but not for rest. A relatively new romantic relationship and he insisted on wandering the terminal. Alone. A then-friend firmly stated she was a traumatized victim, more troubled and put out than anyone else.

When morning came, the three of us stood before unamused, bright-eyed gate agents. We asked, begged, and all but sold our own souls for seats on the first flight home. Our eyes were swollen nearly shut, our attire wrinkled, and limbs imprinted with clothing lines.

They nonchalantly waved their hands and instructed us to sit and wait our turn.

Eventually, and possibly begrudgingly, they granted us tickets.

“Okay,” I say to no one aloud, bravely mustering my game face. “Here we go.”

I gather my belongings and check in for my rescheduled flight. Moments later, I wander through the food court, by the shops, treat myself to a twenty-minute midnight massage, and settle by my eventual gate.

The hysteria has faded. Passengers waved their figurative white flags and dissipated.

I choose a row of unclaimed seats and set down my belongings. Hours after immersing myself in online games and a death scroll, I yawn. Only four-and-a-half hours until takeoff.

Looking around, there’s roughly fifty people scattered between three boarding areas. Like me, they seem resigned, exhausted, and just want to go to sleep in their own beds. One woman cries, “It’s not fair. I can’t be here. I have to go home.” She is comforted by an older female.

Several people prop themselves up in chairs, against walls, or on the floor. I yawn like it’s Morse code, accept the message, and create a cocoon on the industrial carpet. I scoot my suitcase under the row of seats. A backpack with neck pillow raises my head and the beloved butt bolster props up my left hip.

I close my eyes.

A sense of compassion and camaraderie washes over me. I know no one yet feel protected. We are here together. United against a disappointing situation. I'm okay. Better than okay.

Hours pass. Quiet ensues.

Until, it doesn’t.

Pre-teen kids march by in oversized sweatshirts, shorts, and Crocs. One is on a cell phone, loudly talking into it. His posse follows with equal excitement. They parade by all the sleeping people. Pacing. Intercom messages blast through the speakers. A terminal alarm sounds.

I sit up and look at my cell phone. An hour and a half before takeoff. I guess it’s breakfast time.