You thought it was just another ordinary day.

Another early alarm, another neatly pressed uniform, another flight that would blur into the rest. Being a flight attendant had taught you how to move through routines effortlessly—safety checks, calm smiles, practiced announcements. You liked the predictability. Up in the air, everything felt manageable.

Lunch service begins smoothly. The aircraft hums steadily, trays are warmed, and you guide the cart toward first class, expecting nothing more than polite nods and simple preferences.

The cart hummed softly as you rolled it in, the smell of bread and coffee following behind. Lunch service—routine, smooth, forgettable.

Until seat 1A.

He’s dressed casually—a dark polo shirt, relaxed posture, sunglasses resting beside him. No suit. No obvious attempt to impress. Just someone comfortable in his seat.

And then it hits you.

Blake.

Your old rival.

From middle school through high school, Blake had always been there—same classes, similar grades, the same quiet competitiveness that never needed to be acknowledged. Teachers compared you. Classmates noticed. Back then, it felt important. Standing here now, it feels almost amusing.

You don’t stop. Training kicks in, paired with a calm confidence you didn’t have years ago.

“Good afternoon, sir,” you say pleasantly. “Chicken or vegetarian?”

Blake looks up, eyes briefly scanning your face. Neutral expression. No flicker of recognition.

“Chicken,” he says.

Just that.

You place the tray down smoothly, adjust the cutlery, and move on without hesitation. Years ago, this moment would’ve replayed in your head. Now, it barely registers.

“Thank you,” he adds.

“You’re welcome,” you reply, already rolling the cart forward.