Gate 37

I clean counters when I feel invisible. Citrus wipes, latex gloves, slow circles—each pass scrubs away the illusion that I'm part of something bigger. The scent reminds me of bottled sunshine. The kind that never quite makes it through the terminal windows.

Gate 37 blinks on the arrival board. That's me. Online, anyway. A placeholder name turned identity. It started as a joke—just the place I stood the longest—but now it feels like the most honest version of myself. Transitional. Temporary. A gate no one waits at for long.

I'm twenty-three. I live with Pearl—my mom, my compass. She's raised me on hope and rationed joy, while my dad left and never came back. Mom told me I could be anything, even when life whittled her down to long shifts and quiet disappointment. Our apartment is filled with secondhand plants and half-finished dreams. I love her. But I dream of boarding passes with my name on them. Of places where no one asks what I am, or where I've been.

Most people don't ask anything at all. I'm five-two with pale skin, wild curls that defy every bun I attempt, and deep caramel eyes that seem to make people hesitate before talking to me. I don't know why. Maybe they expect fire and get fog.

Maybe I expect too much. I mean I wore my uniform correctly. Simple but sleek. A navy-blue, slim-fitted dress with sharp seams and soft fabric that hugged my body in a way that made me feel like I belonged somewhere important. Black pantyhose smoothed over my legs, and my comfortable kitten heels—are just enough lift to feel purposeful, but not enough to hurt. I pinned my badge neatly at my shoulder, where passengers could glance and forget me.

My downfall, I blush to easily. It's ridiculous. Even now, just thinking about intimacy—or the lack of it—heats up my cheeks. I've never had sex. Not because I'm saving myself or scared, but because no one's ever made me feel seen, not really. Wanting someone is easy. Believing they want me back? That's harder. So I stay untouched, unopened. Like a letter left on the windowsill.

My phone buzzes.

Northbound89:

Still standing by Gate 37? If I were there, I'd tell everyone you're the most beautiful part of the departure hall.

I trace his words on my screen like they're etched in glass. He doesn't ask for anything. Doesn't press. Just... sees me.

Gate 37: I think I'm just a pin on the map no one zooms in on.

Then Quinn passes behind me. My manager. Sharp, polished, predictably married. Definitely not interested in me. His wedding band flashes under the lights like a warning. He offers me the same half-smile he gives everyone, but I know it comes with rules. Quiet ones.

"Charlotte," he says. "You're up front next rotation. Eyes forward."

I nod. Not because I agree. But because resistance has nowhere to land here.

My phone buzzes again.

Northbound89:

One day, I'll take you on a real date.

Funny.

Gate 37: I'll be waiting then. In green. Your favorite

I blush as I moved about my day.

***

I waited until my break to check my phone again.

Ten minutes tucked behind a vending machine, the hum of soda cans cooling louder than the voices in my head.

Northbound89:

Had a dream you were standing in a snowfall. Not cold. Just quiet. Soft.

My fingers hesitated. I wanted to reply with something poetic, something that matched the way he spoke to me. But the words sat heavy in my throat. Lately, even my dreams felt borrowed.

Gate 37:

Sometimes I think I was born waiting. Just don't know what for.

I'd never said something like that out loud. Not to anyone. I was the girl who smiled politely, passed through unnoticed, lived small. But with him, even silence felt safe.

A familiar voice interrupted the moment.

"Everything okay, Charlotte?"

Quinn.

He leaned beside the vending machine, just close enough that his cologne breached my breath—clean, woodsy, deliberate. My fingers curled around my phone like a defensive measure.

"Fine," I said. "Just tired."

I'd been pushing overtime for weeks. Service crew were short-staffed, and I said yes too often. Quinn liked that about me. Liked that I never argued when he handed me someone else's missed shift with a nod and no apology.

His eyes skimmed my face. Not in the way managers do. In the way men do when they think you belong to something they want. I flushed—of course I did—and I hated myself for it.

"You're... thoughtful," he said, too casually.

"Always watching."

There was something in his voice. Something that vibrated like a string pulled taut.

I nodded once, turned to leave. But his next words stopped me.

"You've been pulling long hours," he said. "Go home early today."

I blinked. "You sure? There's still coverage gaps—"

"I'll handle it," he interrupted, already turning.

"Get some rest."

The way he said it unsettled me. Not because it was kind—Quinn could be courteous when it suited him—but because it felt rehearsed. Like he'd made the decision before I'd even punched in.

I gathered my things slowly, heartbeat off-tempo. My phone buzzed in my pocket.

Northbound89:

Any plans for tonight? I heard there is a Ross Hill marathon on tonight."

I typed back, yawning, as I made my way to the employee bus.

Gate37:

I might just record it. I'm tired."

Northbound89:

Okay. Well sweet dreams. I guess I'll talk to you in the morning."

Gate 37:

Goodnight.

***

The highway stretched ahead like a half-forgotten promise. I rolled the window down halfway—just enough to let in the sound of wind without losing the warmth from the vents. My Jeep Compass had seen better days, but I loved the way the dashboard glowed at night, soft and amber. Like a lantern guiding me through limbo.

I exhaled. Hard.

The rest of the drive home felt longer than usual, every familiar landmark slightly off-kilter. Even the radio stations seemed too quiet. So I just let my mind go blank and just drove.