They say we stewardesses in business class see it all. Not just the champagne wishes and caviar dreams, but the raw, unfiltered humanity that comes with crossing continents at 40,000 feet. We learn to read faces, to decipher whispered secrets, to see through the polished veneers. We share stories, sometimes late at night, in hushed tones, marveling at the lives unfolding around us. Incredible stories. This is one of mine.
It started subtly, as these things always do. There was him. A regular, always in seat 1A or 1C. Always impeccable. Sharp suit, a quiet confidence, the kind of smile that could make you believe anything. He traveled often, always business class, always with a woman.And that’s where the fascination began.
It was never the same woman. Not once. But each time, the dynamic was identical. Intense. Deeply affectionate. They would talk in low tones, his hand often resting on hers, or lightly on her knee. He’d make her laugh with quiet jokes, his eyes crinkling at the corners. He’d fetch her blanket himself, adjust her pillow, ask about her day with a genuine tenderness that was almost painful to witness. So much care, so much devotion. It made me ache sometimes, seeing it. My own life felt… quieter. More predictable.
Un hombre cansado sujetándose la cabeza | Fuente: Midjourney
I found myself watching them, flight after flight, sometimes a different woman every week. A blonde with a dazzling laugh, a redhead with a quiet, knowing smile, a fierce brunette who leaned into his space like she owned him. Each one utterly captivated by him. And he, in turn, seemed utterly captivated by them.
It was a strange sort of envy, a wistful longing. My own partner, he was wonderful, don’t get me wrong. Stable. Loving, in his own way. But that fiery, all-consuming passion I saw reflected in the eyes of these women, in the gentle brush of his thumb on their knuckles? That was something I hadn’t felt in a very long time. I’d come home sometimes, tired from a long-haul, and look at my partner sleeping soundly beside me, and a dull ache would settle in my chest. Why couldn’t we have that kind of spark anymore?
He had a distinct way of holding his coffee cup. Pinky slightly extended, a subtle tilt of his head when he listened. A specific, expensive watch he always wore. I started noticing these things. Not because I was suspicious, not then. But because he was a fixture in my sky-high world, an almost mythological figure of romance. He was the man who could make any woman feel like she was the only one in the universe. I almost admired him for it.
Una pantalla en el respaldo de un asiento de avión | Fuente: Midjourney
Then, about six months ago, something shifted. It was on a flight to Tokyo. The woman with him this time was petite, with long dark hair, wearing a sapphire pendant that caught the light just so. He was leaning in, whispering something that made her blush and playfully swat his arm. The gesture was so familiar, so intimate. And then he laughed.
It was a low rumble, a sound I’d heard countless times. But this time, it sent a shiver down my spine. No. It can’t be. My heart started to pound. My mind is playing tricks on me. The thought was ridiculous. He lived halfway across the world, virtually. It was impossible. Yet, the watch… the way he tilted his head… The knot forming in my stomach was cold, hard dread.
I shook it off. We all have dopplegangers, right? Similar mannerisms. It was a stressful job, I was probably overtired. I focused on serving drinks, on making sure everyone had what they needed, trying to push the image of that laugh out of my head.
But then there were more flights. More women. And the dreadful familiarity solidified. The specific scar above his left eyebrow, barely visible unless you were close enough to… well, to be that close. The way his hair curled just behind his ears when it grew out a little. The slightly crooked front tooth that only showed when he really smiled. Every single detail was HIM.
My hands started to tremble on service. I had to grip the trolley to steady myself. No. No. NO.
Un botón de llamada en un asiento de avión | Fuente: Midjourney
He never looked at me. Not really. I was just the stewardess. Invisible. Which, ironically, was probably a blessing in disguise for him. He was too engrossed in his current paramour to notice the woman whose entire world was silently imploding right in front of him.
I remembered the times he’d “traveled for work.” The long stretches, the vague explanations of “major client deals” or “international conferences.” The perfect alibis. He’d always come back with thoughtful gifts, expensive chocolates, telling me how much he’d missed me. All lies.
One particular flight, a few weeks ago, was the final, brutal blow. He was with a woman who had a small child, maybe five or six, nestled asleep in the business class seat beside them. The man, my partner, was stroking the child’s hair with such tenderness, a depth of love I had never seen directed at me. The woman smiled at him, a tired but utterly devoted smile. She whispered something. He leaned in and kissed her forehead.
And then, just before landing, as I was collecting service items, I saw it. The child had a small, custom-made blanket draped over them. On the corner, in delicate embroidery, were initials.
H.A. & E.A.
Una azafata molesta | Fuente: Midjourney
My partner’s last name. His first initial. And the first initial of the woman he was with, who was clearly his wife, and the mother of his child. Not a girlfriend, not an affair, but a family he’d built. A complete, separate, beautiful life.
My vision blurred. The cabin lights seemed to swim. The polished chrome of the trolley reflected my horrified face back at me. I could barely breathe.
All those incredible stories we share, all the secrets we witness… they were just background noise to the one I was living. The one that was my own life.
I walked down the aisle, collected a glass from his table. He glanced up, smiled his charming, confident smile at me. That same smile he used on all of them. And then he looked back at his family.
My breath caught in my throat. I wanted to scream. I wanted to smash the glass in my hand. I wanted the plane to fall out of the sky.
I wanted to ask him, right there, in front of everyone, how he could do this. How he could look me in the eye, for years, and lie to me every single day. How he could build a whole life, a whole world, that I knew nothing about.
Un vuelo lleno de gente molesta | Fuente: Midjourney
But I couldn’t. I just stood there, holding that glass, my hand shaking so violently I thought I’d drop it. I swallowed the scream. I swallowed the tears.
Because in that moment, in the sterile, quiet hum of the business class cabin, I realized the most shattering truth of all:
He didn’t even recognize me.
He looked straight through me. I was just the stewardess. Just the stewardess.
My entire life was a lie. And he didn’t even remember the woman he was lying to.
