The Flight I Wanted to Forget
It happened on my last business trip — one of those endless flights where time loses meaning, and exhaustion feels like a second skin. I’d been traveling for twelve hours straight, running on instant coffee and willpower, and all I wanted was peace — six hours of silence between clouds.
When I finally boarded, the world outside the airplane window was already dipped in dusk. I found my seat, buckled in, closed my eyes, and exhaled. For the first time in days, I thought: Maybe I’ll finally rest.
But peace, as it turned out, had other plans.
The Constant Kicking and the Never-Ending Questions
It started with chatter. Not the usual kind of polite, bored conversation — but the boundless energy of a seven-year-old boy sitting directly behind me. He fired questions at his mother like a machine gun of curiosity:
“Why do clouds move?”
“Do birds ever get tired?”
“Can airplanes race each other?”
At first, I smiled — faintly amused, maybe even nostalgic for a time when my own curiosity had been that pure. But the novelty wore off quickly. His voice was loud, sharp, impossible to tune out.
And then came the kicks.
A light tap against the back of my seat. Then another. Then another — rhythmic, persistent, impossible to ignore.
I turned around politely, forcing a tired smile. “Hey, buddy, could you try not to kick the seat? I’m a little tired.”
His mother gave me an apologetic look. “I’m so sorry, he’s just excited about flying.”
“No problem,” I said. I’ll be asleep in five minutes, I told myself.
But five minutes became ten, then twenty. The tapping turned into thumping — full, deliberate kicks that rattled my seat and my patience.

The Flight I Wanted to Forget
It happened on my last business trip — one of those endless flights where time loses meaning, and exhaustion feels like a second skin. I’d been traveling for twelve hours straight, running on instant coffee and willpower, and all I wanted was peace — six hours of silence between clouds.
When I finally boarded, the world outside the airplane window was already dipped in dusk. I found my seat, buckled in, closed my eyes, and exhaled. For the first time in days, I thought: Maybe I’ll finally rest.
But peace, as it turned out, had other plans.
The Constant Kicking and the Never-Ending Questions
It started with chatter. Not the usual kind of polite, bored conversation — but the boundless energy of a seven-year-old boy sitting directly behind me. He fired questions at his mother like a machine gun of curiosity:
“Why do clouds move?”
“Do birds ever get tired?”
“Can airplanes race each other?”
At first, I smiled — faintly amused, maybe even nostalgic for a time when my own curiosity had been that pure. But the novelty wore off quickly. His voice was loud, sharp, impossible to tune out.
And then came the kicks.
A light tap against the back of my seat. Then another. Then another — rhythmic, persistent, impossible to ignore.
I turned around politely, forcing a tired smile. “Hey, buddy, could you try not to kick the seat? I’m a little tired.”
His mother gave me an apologetic look. “I’m so sorry, he’s just excited about flying.”
“No problem,” I said. I’ll be asleep in five minutes, I told myself.
But five minutes became ten, then twenty. The tapping turned into thumping — full, deliberate kicks that rattled my seat and my patience.

Losing My Patience — and My Calm
I tried everything — deep breaths, noise-canceling headphones, closing my eyes and pretending I was somewhere else. But every time I started to drift, another kick yanked me back into reality.
Finally, I turned again — less polite this time.
“Ma’am, please. I really need to rest. Could you ask him to stop?”
She tried. She really did. But the boy was in his own world, too caught up in his excitement to care about mine. The flight attendant even stopped by, offering a gentle reminder that other passengers were trying to sleep.
Nothing worked. The kicks continued.
I could feel my temper rising — not in a dramatic, angry way, but in the quiet, burning frustration that builds when you feel powerless and unseen.
