Snow Liu's Web

A Flight Without Rest

Flight: British Airways BA168 | Route: Shanghai (PVG) to London Heathrow (LHR) | Aircraft: Boeing 777-300ER | Seat: 2A, Business Class Window

I barely look up when the flight attendant approaches.

“Ms. Liu, would you prefer the Western or Chinese menu for dinner?”

I offer a polite smile—professional, measured. “I’m fine, thank you.”

She hesitates for a moment, likely used to business travelers like me skipping meals. Then she nods and moves on. The cabin hums quietly, the soft clinking of silverware from other passengers filling the space. I adjust my seat slightly, sighing.

This flight wasn’t even in my schedule two weeks ago. A last-minute conference in London, squeezed between back-to-back meetings, thrown onto my calendar without a second thought. My assistant, the new girl, arranged everything—but I can’t shake the feeling that she might have missed something. She’s young, eager, but I don’t trust her yet.

Flight BA168, Shanghai to London Heathrow, Boeing 777-300ER. Seat 2A.

Business class, front cabin, the same place I always sit. A quiet space where the world outside feels distant, where I can pretend, for a few hours, that I have a moment to breathe.

I open my phone and scroll through the email thread she forwarded. Conference schedule. Keynote speakers. Updated meeting agenda. Everything seems in place, but my mind won’t let it go. One mistake, one oversight, and I’ll be the one cleaning up the mess.

I sigh again, rubbing my temple.

Thirty-six hours ago, I was in a different time zone, running a regional strategy review. Three days from now, I’ll be somewhere else. I live in transit, moving between cities, between meetings, between expectations. It never stops.

And then there’s my mother.

Before boarding, she sent me the usual message. “Safe travels. When are you planning to settle down?”

She doesn’t even try to be subtle anymore. I’m in my thirties, unmarried, successful by every professional standard, yet somehow still “lacking” in her eyes. Every conversation circles back to the same question.

I don’t know what to tell her.

She wants me to “lower my standards”, like so many others my age eventually do. My university friends—most are married now, some with children, some divorced already. I’ve thought about it too, about just picking someone and letting the pieces fall where they may. Would it really be so bad?

Would I even be capable of loving someone at this point?

I shake my head, as if the thought itself is an inconvenience. It doesn’t matter. Right now, I have a conference to attend, meetings to get through, expectations to meet. Love is a luxury I can’t afford.

I reach for my toiletry bag and head to the restroom. My reflection in the mirror looks composed, as always—flawless makeup, sleek hair, the careful image of a woman in control. But I feel the exhaustion beneath it, creeping in through the cracks.

I splash cold water on my face, letting the coolness sharpen my focus. No dinner tonight—I skipped it again, like always. Another habit formed in the name of discipline, of staying in shape, of maintaining the image I’ve built. Hunger has become something I can ignore.

Back at my seat, I pull out my iPad, the blue glow of unread emails staring back at me. I force myself to skim through a few, responding where necessary, but my brain is heavy, my eyes unfocused.

At some point, I drift off—still holding my iPad, still sitting upright, the hum of the plane fading into the background.

And in sleep, my dreams take me somewhere else.

Not to boardrooms or meetings, not to flights or endless schedules. But to something softer, warmer. A world where I let myself stop running. A world where I let myself love.

The plane moves steadily through the sky. But for once, I am still.