Midnight at Gate 17
June 10, 2025
The announcement echoed through the airport:
“Flight 262 to Boston is now delayed until 12:45 a.m.”
Emma groaned and slumped deeper into the vinyl seat at Gate 17. Her book lay forgotten in her lap. Her phone battery was at 8%. Her patience was at 0%.
“Looks like we’re spending the night in limbo,” someone said beside her.
She turned.
The man was tall, scruffy, with a travel pillow around his neck like a fashion statement and a cup of vending machine coffee in one hand.
Emma gave him a tired smile. “Unless a miracle lands that plane.”
“I wouldn’t hold my breath,” he said, taking the seat next to hers. “Ben.”
“Emma.”
They shook hands like strangers at a train station in a black-and-white film.
“You headed to Boston for work or play?” he asked.
“Work,” she said. “Interview. Publishing house.”
“Writer?”
“Editor.”
“Still romantic.”
Emma shrugged. “Romance is a lot less romantic when you’re editing twelve drafts of it.”
Ben laughed. “Fair point.”
“And you?”
“Heading home. I was in Chicago visiting my sister. She’s pregnant. Third kid.”
“That sounds… chaotic.”
“It is. I needed earplugs and a therapist by day two.”
Emma chuckled. “And now the universe won’t let you escape.”
“Maybe the universe is giving me a reason to slow down.”
She glanced at him. “Are you always this philosophical at midnight in airports?”
“Only when I meet someone worth talking to.”
She arched an eyebrow but smiled. “Smooth.”
He held up his coffee like a toast. “I try.”
They talked. About everything. About nothing.
The kind of conversation that flowed easily only when both people knew they might never see each other again.
Ben told her about his job as a music teacher, about how he used to dream of composing movie soundtracks.
Emma told him about her obsession with crossword puzzles, and how she secretly judged people by their grammar in texts.
At 1:05 a.m., the loudspeaker crackled again.
“Flight 262 now departing at 2:15 a.m.”
They groaned in unison.
Ben kicked his bag under the seat. “I swear this place is cursed.”
“I’m starting to believe we’ll never leave.”
“Maybe that’s not so bad,” he said.
Emma gave him a sideways glance. “You flirting with me, Ben?”
He grinned. “Only if it’s working.”
She shook her head, smiling despite herself.
“Want to grab a donut from that sad little 24-hour stand?” he asked.
“I’ve never said no to a donut.”
They wandered through the quiet terminal. Fluorescent lights buzzed above. Somewhere, a baby cried in the distance.
The donut stand had two options left: plain and sprinkled.
“Sprinkled,” they said in unison, then laughed.
Ben broke his in half. “For luck.”
Emma accepted the piece. “What are we wishing for?”
“Delayed flights that aren’t completely miserable.”
She touched her half to his like a toast. “To Gate 17.”
Back at their seats, the world felt slightly softer.
Emma yawned, rubbing her eyes. “I swear, I’ll miss the flight if they ever call it.”
“I’ll wake you,” he said. “Promise.”
“You don’t even know me.”
“Doesn’t matter.”
She looked at him. “Why are you being so… nice?”
Ben hesitated. “Because you’re smart, and funny, and the kind of person I don’t meet often. And maybe I’m tired of not saying things when I feel them.”
She blinked. “That’s… a lot for a two-hour airport friendship.”
He nodded. “It is. But maybe that’s the point. No pressure. Just truth.”
Emma looked down at her hands. “I haven’t had anyone say something like that in a long time.”
“Well,” he said gently, “I’m saying it now.”
At 2:14 a.m., the loudspeaker came to life again.
“Final boarding call for Flight 262 to Boston.”
They both stared at the gate in disbelief.
Emma stood. “I guess this is it.”
Ben nodded, picking up his bag. “You’re really going?”
“I have to.”
He hesitated. “Can I give you something?”
Before she could answer, he pulled a pen from his backpack and scribbled on the back of a napkin. Then handed it to her.
His number. A short note.
“In case you want more than a gate conversation.”
She smiled. “You’re consistent, I’ll give you that.”
“I try.”
They walked to the boarding gate in silence.
At the door, she turned. “What if we never see each other again?”
He shrugged. “Then I’ll write a song about it and make a million dollars.”
“And if I call?”
He smiled. “Then I’ll pick up.”
She stepped through the gate, napkin clutched in hand.
Three days later, in a Boston café, Emma stared at her phone.
She’d aced the interview.
Gotten the job.
Found a new apartment.
But she kept thinking about a man at Gate 17 who made a delayed flight feel like a miracle.
With a smile, she pulled out the napkin.
And dialed.