It began subtly—just the corner of someone’s face in a crowd, a glance over her shoulder in a mirrored surface, a man stepping into an elevator just as she turned. Each time, her chest tightened. Each time, she caught her breath. Each time, it wasn’t Luke.
Or at least, she told herself it wasn’t. She sat alone one evening in the dim crew lounge, fingers gripping a mug of tea that had long gone cold. Her thoughts kept looping. What if I’m not ready? The idea clawed at her brain. What if I’ve gone back too soon? What if I’m losing it?