Blog 6: You Still Look Out the Window First
Flight: Singapore Airlines SQ632 | Route: Singapore (SIN) to Tokyo Narita (NRT) | Aircraft: Airbus A350-900 | Seats: 44A & 44B, Economy Class Window and Aisle
You still look out the window first.
Even now, as the plane taxis, your forehead presses softly against the plastic curve, your eyes wide with quiet awe, like they were the first time I brought you on a cable car ride in Genting Highlands. That same hush. That same upward gaze.
And I still pretend not to watch you while you do it.
I adjust the blanket folded on my lap, pretend I’m preoccupied with the in-flight magazine, but I notice everything—the way your hand cups the side of your face, the way your breath fogs the window just slightly, the way your fingers tap your leg gently like you’re timing the takeoff.
We don’t talk much when the plane starts moving. That’s always been your moment, and I’ve learned not to interrupt it.
But I’m thinking, as we lift off:
We finally did it.
We’re going to Japan.
You told me once that you dreamed of seeing cherry blossoms in Tokyo ever since you were a girl. Your older sister brought home a postcard of them from a layover when she was a flight attendant. You kept that postcard for decades.
I used to tease you—”One tree is the same as the other,” I’d say, and you’d swat my arm. But I saw the way your eyes lingered on that postcard every spring when the monsoon season began and we had to hang the laundry indoors.
We were always working. Always saving. Always putting things off.
“One day, when we’re retired,” you said.
“One day, when the house is paid off,” I said.
One day turned into thirty-five years.
Now here we are, side by side in Row 44, surrounded by young travelers with sleek suitcases and neck pillows shaped like cartoon animals. I imagine most of them think we’re just another old couple heading off to see grandkids.
We didn’t bring our phones out for a photo when the safety demo started.
We don’t have TikTok or travel vlogs.
But we have each other.
And I think that still counts for something.
You whisper, “Do you think I should try the chicken or the soba set?”
And I smile, because you already know I’m going to say soba. You ask every flight, every time we fly, and I always pick the lighter one, the healthier one, the one that won’t upset your stomach.
You laugh quietly and say, “I knew you’d say that.”
Then you go with the chicken.
I offer you my fruit cup without saying anything. You take it. That’s the exchange. That’s how we talk sometimes—through trades and glances and half-smiles.
The flight attendant calls you “Madam” and me “Sir” and gives us both a warm towel. You fold yours neatly before using it. I wipe my face and drop mine half-folded on the tray. You reach over and fix it without looking.
You always do that.
You always will.
You’re dozing now, your head tilted slightly toward my shoulder, your hands folded over your stomach. I pull your blanket up a little higher. The cabin lights are dimmed, and the hum of the engines settles into the kind of background sound that makes you feel like time has stopped.
But I remember the ticking.
I remember how I nearly didn’t propose to you.
How I was so scared I waited until the week after you got your job offer in Penang.
How you turned it down when I finally asked you to marry me.
“Tokyo will always be there,” you said. “Let’s build a home first.”
You chose me over your dreams once.
I thought about that when I booked this flight.
You shift a little, then wake up slowly and turn to me.
“You’re not sleeping?” you ask.
“Not yet.”
You rest your hand on my arm, and I nod toward the tray table.
“You missed your tea.”
You look disappointed for a moment. Then you say, “It’s okay. I’ll have tea under the cherry trees instead.”
We land in Tokyo just after sunrise. The A350 glides quietly onto the runway, smoother than most landings I’ve felt.
I glance out the window before you do this time. You notice, nudge my elbow, and grin.
“You beat me.”
“Just this once.”
As we gather our bags, I see you glance back at our seats—as if trying to memorize them, even though they’re just two spots on a plane we’ll never sit in again.
You’ve always remembered little places. Rooms. Streets. Ticket stubs. I forget things now, more than I used to, but you never let the details slip.
You remember for both of us.
We walk slowly through the terminal, hand in hand. A woman in a green coat rushes past us. A young couple speaks rapid French behind us. Someone in a tan bucket hat is filming everything on a GoPro.
But we’re in no rush.
This is our time.
Not for work.
Not for kids.
Not for anyone else.
Just us.
The couple who waited until everything was paid off, everything was done, and the sky was finally free.
You look at me as we near immigration.
“Do I look okay?” you ask, smoothing your scarf.
“You always have.”
You smile, but your eyes glisten slightly. I squeeze your hand tighter.
We’re not young. But we’re not finished either.
And you, my love—
you still look out the window first.
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