[Christmas Eve, 24th of December, 2013]

I quietly hand my British passport over to the check-in lady. She beams at me, the bright cherry scarf tucked neatly around her neck setting off the doll-like blush that highlights the apple of each cheek. Annoyingly cheerful.

I don’t smile back.

My parents usher me down the jet bridge, and I force my feet to fall into rhythm with each other despite their immense protest, reluctantly marching to their impending doom. In an attempt to distract myself, I keep my eyes trained on the dated retro carpet. It’s an unfortunate shade of puke-green, with little orange squares that looked like chunked carrots. Maybe they’re giving us a preview of the in-flight meal.

I steal a glance at my younger brother, Noah, but he’s already engrossed in his Playstation Vita, entertained by a disturbingly violent video-game. He jiggles his thumb wildly against the joystick, and let’s out a whoop of glee as yet another opponent gets chopped in half. Noah perfected the ability to block out reality a long time ago.

So I look up at Matthew - the Oldest Child. Of course, there he is, showering me with pity. With a knowing look, he squeezes my arm in an attempt to cheer me up. I try and give him my most convincing smile, but the expression falls flat, and I look away. So much for that. Things are pretty easy for said Oldest Child, because he’s not being yanked from his home and transported halfway across the world, like cattle to the slaughter. He lives back home in the States, partying it up at his dream college. He escaped before it all went pear-shaped.

See, there’s a limit to how much pity you can ask of people. At first it’s nice - you’re the girl whose parents are yanking her away from everything she loves, smack dab in the middle of junior year, and everyone says it’s such a shame, that they’re going to miss you so much. But then a few weeks pass, and you realize that you’re actually moving. Pretty soon, despair starts setting in. The window between you and your old life is being boarded up, and before you know it you’re trapped in a black room without that precious light, fumbling helplessly through the darkness. People don’t feel less upset that you’re leaving, but they do seem slightly shocked at how deranged you seem to be becoming.

That’s the stage I’m at.

We reach the end of the jet bridge, and I peek through the tiny oval windows that flank either side. Heathrow sprawls before me, the grey terminals interlocked in a jumbled heap, like one of those complicated puzzles that fit together at first but then lose all semblance of logic as they’re taken apart. Despite having consistently despised this delay-ridden, queue-riddled mess of an airport over the years, I can sense that all-too-familiar ache crawl into my tender heart. I’ve been feeling particularly sentimental about crappy British things lately.

We board the plane, and immediately the smell of stale air violates my senses. Already, I feel disgust rise in my throat, and close my eyes shut, willing the sick feeling to dissipate. I don’t do well on planes. Or any confined spaces, really. A fresh-faced flight attendant stands in the middle of the aisle in a crisp navy blue uniform, and she’s even peppier than the check-in lady, which I didn’t think was possible. A fluffy red santa’s hat sits askew on top of her head, looking slightly pitiful and not as all festive as it droops precariously to one side - as if my Christmas wasn’t bad enough already.

We approach our row, and the siblings quickly recognize the seating arrangement. Three across; one gets window, one gets aisle, and the last, horribly unlucky person gets middle. A quick fight ensues, with Matt and Noah both arguing for aisle - Matt because he has giraffe legs, and Noah because he has a ridiculously small bladder. I slip into the row as they continue to bicker, taking my unrequited place by the window. Mercifully, the shutters are pulled down all the way, preventing me from getting even a glimpse of the outside world. I’m scared I’ll break down if I do.

I think the captain is saying something over the intercom, but I’m too preoccupied to notice. All I hear is snippets here and there, but it’s like one word stands out among the others, over and over in my head; departure, departure, departure. Departure. It rings through me like a black bell, and before I can stop myself, my mind is pulling me back in time, playing my memories on repeat.

It was two hours ago. I’m standing behind a wide windowpane, my hands pressed up against the glass with the desperate fervor of an inmate on visiting day. My four best friends stand on the opposite side, lined up in a row, with colourful signs filled with old pictures and sloppy drawings and supremely cheesy lines from our favourite chick flick movies. Their heartbroken expressions mirror mine as we find ourselves living the moment we hoped would never come.

My hands are still flush against the cool glass - in this moment, that fragile barrier is anything but transparent. I close my eyes, willing it to disappear so I can wrap my arms around them one last time and promise that I’ll be back. I give the security lady another helpless look, but despite the pity in her eyes, she shakes her head. I’ve already passed the gates - there’s no going back. I stare down at my palms, resisting the urge to curl them into fists and pound on the glass until it breaks, until it shatters into a million shimmering pieces and my friends and I hijack Emma’s dad’s car and drive off into the sunset. It’ll be like that final scene out of Thelma and Louise - completely reckless and just as tragic.

Suddenly a shaking snaps me back to the present, and I can feel the plane roar to life beneath us, like a rumbling beast awaking from it’s slumber. I squeeze my eyes shut as we surge forward with that huge rush of force that always seems to sucker-punch you in the gut. Then we’re airborne and I try to stop myself but I can’t.

I open the window.

The ground is fast receding beneath us, like scrolling out on Google Earth, and the grey tarmac grows to cow grass which grows to rooftops which grows to the tips of neighborhoods. Throbbing pressure builds in my ears as I watch, the retreating world painfully oblivious to the fact that I’m trapped in this flying hearse, and suddenly, I hate this window.

I hate the fact that the last sight it’s giving me is just a tiny sliver of my city, a fraction of it allows, when I should be able to explore it one last time. I should have been able to hug my friends one last time.

Because after all, a window’s just a glimpse. The viewer gets to see what they desire and at first it’s great. But then they’re stopped by that glass barrier and the whole horrible reality comes trampling through your heart. Your realise that for all the joy that sight brings, it also shows you what you can no longer have - you can’t walk through. You’re trapped.

On this airplane, I’d much rather be sat by the door.