Liminal

"Nothing good ever follows 'Ladies and gentlemen' on an aircraft intercom—except maybe Luke finally texting back."

Airports always felt like liminal spaces to me—neither here nor there, belonging to no particular place but serving as threshold between all places. The Adelaide terminal at six-thirty in the morning was quiet, populated by the dedicated early risers and the unfortunately scheduled, all of us shuffling through security with that peculiar mixture of resignation and anticipation that air travel demanded.

I'd made it. Five hours of driving through the night, a few hours of restless sleep in the car at a rest stop because I couldn't face the thought of going to Dad and Greta's house, couldn't stomach the questions and concerned looks and the inevitable interrogation about why I was flying to Tasmania with less than twelve hours notice. Better to arrive at the airport tired and stiff-necked than to navigate that particular minefield.

The boarding pass felt substantial in my hand as I approached the gate—physical proof that this was really happening, that I was actually doing this. The flight attendant who took it was young, probably mid-twenties, with that practised smile they all seemed to develop. Professional warmth. The kind that acknowledged your existence without actually seeing you.

"Welcome, Mr. Smith. Your seat is just down on the left," she said, her voice hitting that perfect note between friendly and efficient.

I nodded my thanks and made my way down the aisle, my backpack feeling heavier than it should. I'd packed light—three days' worth of clothes, toiletries, my laptop in case I needed to work. The overnight bag was checked. Everything I needed for a brief rescue mission to Tasmania, though I still wasn't entirely sure what I was rescuing Luke from.

The plane was filling up around me, each passenger a small study in human behaviour. A young kid, maybe four or five, was refusing to sit down properly, squirming in his seat whilst his mother tried to cajole him with increasingly desperate bribes. A woman in the row ahead suddenly remembered she desperately needed something from her overhead bag, creating a small traffic jam as she wrestled with the compartment. An elderly gentleman asked for help stowing his carry-on, his gratitude disproportionate to the small effort it took to lift it.

All these tiny human moments, all these little dramas playing out in the confined space of an aircraft cabin. Under different circumstances, I might have found them endearing. This morning, they just felt like obstacles between me and my seat.

Finally, I made it to 14A. Window seat. Thank God. I'd specifically selected it when Luke had forwarded the booking details—a small bit of control in a situation that felt largely outside my control. The window seat meant I could lean against the wall, create a buffer between myself and whoever ended up next to me, retreat into my own space without seeming rude.

I shoved my backpack under the seat in front of me and settled in, my body immediately recognising the familiar contours of an aircraft seat. I'd always liked flying, despite the cramped quarters and recycled air. There was something appealing about being temporarily unreachable, suspended between departure and arrival, belonging nowhere for a few hours.

The engines started their preliminary whine, that distinctive sound that signalled the beginning of pre-flight checks. I felt myself relax slightly, the tension in my shoulders easing. Soon we'd be taxiing. Soon we'd be airborne. Soon I'd be in Hobart, and whatever Luke needed would become clear, and I could actually do something rather than just driving and worrying and wondering.

The smile that had started to form on my face died as the engines suddenly wound down, the reassuring rumble cutting off mid-note. The cabin lights flickered. That distinctive silence that meant something had gone wrong settled over the cabin like a blanket.

Oh, come on.

"Ladies and gentlemen," came a voice through the sound system—young, female, determinedly calm—and my heart sank. Nothing good ever followed those words. "The captain has advised me to inform you that we're experiencing a minor mechanical fault. We apologise for the inconvenience, but we'll be delayed for approximately thirty to forty-five minutes whilst an engineer attends to the aircraft. We'll keep you informed of any changes. Thank you for your patience."

I leaned my head back against the seat and closed my eyes. Of course. Of course there was a delay. Why wouldn't there be? The universe seemed determined to throw obstacles in my path at every opportunity. Kangaroos on dark highways. Rose bushes beneath bedroom windows. And now mechanical faults on aircraft that had been perfectly fine five minutes ago.

The thing about delays was they gave you time to think. Time you didn't necessarily want. Time for all the worries you'd been successfully suppressing to bubble back to the surface.

I pulled out my phone before the cabin crew could tell us to turn them off. Luke needed to know. Managing expectations was basic crisis management, something my business training had drilled into me even if I'd never quite managed to apply it to my personal life.

Paul: Flight delayed 45mins. Let you know if longer. See you soon.

I hit send and watched the message disappear into the aether. The little tick marks appeared—delivered. But no immediate response. Maybe Luke was still asleep. Maybe he was in the shower. Maybe he'd left his phone in another room.

Or maybe something was wrong.

The thought wormed its way into my mind despite my best efforts to dismiss it. Luke had been strange on the phone yesterday. Not just worried, but urgent. Almost frantic underneath that forced casualness. What if something had happened overnight? What if whatever crisis he was facing had escalated?

Five minutes passed. I stared at my phone screen, willing it to light up with Luke's response.

Nothing.

Paul: Did you get my message??

The question marks felt accusatory even as I typed them. I was being paranoid. Luke was fine. He was probably just busy, or his phone was on silent, or any one of a hundred perfectly reasonable explanations.

But the silence gnawed at me. Luke usually responded quickly to messages. He was one of those people who seemed permanently attached to his phone, always available, always connected. For him not to respond for five minutes was unusual. For him not to respond when he knew I was flying over specifically because he'd said it was urgent—that felt wrong.

The plane around me had settled into that particular kind of restless waiting that characterised delays. Some people were reading. Others were on their phones. A few were sleeping, or trying to. The cabin crew moved through the aisles, offering water and apologies in equal measure.

The minutes dragged. Each one felt longer than the last. I checked my phone compulsively, even though I'd turned the sound on and would definitely hear if a message came through.

Thirty minutes. Still nothing from Luke.

Paul: Luke!?

The single word felt inadequate, but I didn't know what else to say. Answer your phone. Tell me you're okay. Tell me I'm not flying into some disaster I can't prepare for.

The clunk of the tray table next to me jolted me out of my spiralling thoughts. My eyes, which had drifted half-closed in the exhaustion that came from too little sleep and too much worry, snapped open.

"Sorry, mate," came the apologetic murmur from the man seated beside me.

I glanced over. Middle-aged bloke, business casual, probably heading to Hobart for work. He'd settled into the middle seat—someone else now occupied the aisle—and was arranging his belongings with the quietness of a frequent flyer.

I nodded acknowledgement and turned back to my window, to my phone, to the silence from Luke that felt increasingly ominous.

The intercom crackled again, and the same young woman's voice filled the cabin. "Ladies and gentlemen. Your attention please..."

I braced myself for another delay announcement. Forty-five minutes had passed. We should be moving by now.

"We've been cleared for departure. We apologise again for the inconvenience and thank you for your patience. Please ensure your seatbelts are fastened and your seats and tray tables are in their upright positions."

Relief flooded through me, warm and immediate. Finally. Finally, we were moving.

I pulled up my messages one more time.

Paul: Taking off! See you soon lil bro

The affection in that last bit surprised me. I wasn't usually demonstrative, not even in text messages. But something about the silence, about the worry, about the whole surreal situation made me want to reach across the distance and reassure Luke—and maybe reassure myself—that we were okay, that whatever was happening, we'd figure it out together.

I powered down my phone as instructed and tucked it into my pocket. The plane was already moving, that distinctive sensation of forward motion as we pulled away from the gate. The cabin crew were doing their final checks, ensuring everyone was compliant and secured.

The man next to me was reading the Qantas magazine with the kind of intense focus that suggested he was trying to distract himself from something. The person in the aisle seat had their eyes closed, earbuds in, already retreating into their own world.

We taxied towards the runway, the wait punctuated by the occasional instruction from the pilot to the cabin crew. I watched through the window as Adelaide slid past—the terminal buildings, the maintenance hangars, the acres of tarmac that separated the city from the sky.

Then we were at the runway threshold, the engines winding up to that particular pitch that meant we were about to commit, about to trade the certainty of solid ground for the uncertainty of air.

The acceleration pressed me back into my seat, familiar and oddly comforting. The world outside the window blurred. The nose of the aircraft lifted. That moment of transition, wheels leaving tarmac, the subtle shift in sensation that marked the boundary between earth and sky.

We were airborne.

I let myself lean back into the seat, feeling the headrest cradle my skull. The exhaustion I'd been fighting since leaving Broken Hill descended over me like a physical weight. My eyelids felt impossibly heavy. My whole body ached with the kind of tiredness that comes from too much driving, too little sleep, and too many emotional upheavals compressed into too short a time.

The steady hum of the engines was hypnotic. The slight vibration that travelled through the aircraft's frame was oddly soothing. Around me, the plane had settled into that particular quiet that marked the beginning of a journey—a collective exhale as passengers settled in for the flight.

Luke would explain everything when I landed. Whatever crisis he was facing, whatever problems with Jamie had driven him to this, I'd know in a few hours. There was nothing I could do about it right now, suspended here between Adelaide and Hobart, belonging to neither place.

My thoughts were already fragmenting, dissolving into the kind of semi-consciousness that preceded proper sleep. Images flickered through my mind, disconnected and dreamlike. Claire's face at the window. The kangaroo frozen in my headlights. Luke's voice on the phone, that strange edge that suggested vulnerability he never usually showed.

The worry was still there, lodged somewhere in my chest like a stone. But exhaustion was winning. My body was demanding rest, and up here, at thirty thousand feet with nowhere to go and nothing to do, resistance felt futile.

I let my eyes close properly. Let the sound of the engines and the gentle vibration of flight carry me towards sleep. Just a few hours. Just enough to take the edge off the exhaustion. Then I'd be in Hobart, and Luke would be there, and whatever this was, we'd face it together.