First Class Pov ((install)) -

I take off my shoes. Not because my feet hurt, but because they hand you an actual amenity kit made of recycled sailcloth that contains hand lotion from a brand I cannot pronounce. The slippers are waiting. Slippers. On a plane. This is not travel; this is a prelude to a nap.

– A passenger in 2A

I watch the other cabins board through the gap in the curtain. The economy passengers shuffle past, eyes flicking toward the flat-bed seats with a mixture of curiosity and mild resentment. I feel a flush of guilt. I was them last Tuesday. I will be them next Tuesday. first class pov

I realize I am not paying for the legroom. I am paying for the silence. The permission to pause. In a world that demands you keep your elbows in and your voice down and your carry-on under 10 kilos, first class gives you three feet of air that belongs only to you. I take off my shoes

I don’t belong here.

The flight attendant—her name is Sylvie, according to the tiny gold pin on her blazer—remembers my preference. She doesn’t ask if I want champagne. She simply places a glass of Billecart-Salmon on the burled walnut tray and says, "Welcome back, Mr. H." Slippers

But for now, I am going to lie here, listen to the hum of the engines, and pretend that this is just how I live.