You’re trying not to panic. Really. But it’s getting harder with every wrong turn, every flashing gate number that doesn’t match the one on your boarding pass. Your flight to Tokyo leaves in forty minutes, and you’ve already circled this terminal twice.

The departure board above flickers between Hangul and English, too fast to catch. The announcements echo around you in three languages, none of which tell you what you need. And your phone, god, your phone, isn’t connecting to airport Wi-Fi no matter how many times you tap it.

No signal. No maps. No idea where you are.

You stand near the window facing the tarmac, breathing in and out. Japan was supposed to be a break. A chance to clear your head, to breathe in a new city. But here you are, stuck before you even board. Your thumb hovers over your lock screen.

Desperate times.

You swipe open Airdrop.

A bunch of anonymous names pop up some device IDs, one named “Free Wi-Fi Please,” another that’s just a string of emojis.

And then one stands out:

“8:09 to Earth”

It feels strange, random. But also poetic. The kind of name someone thoughtful would use. Or at least, someone who wouldn’t laugh at a desperate stranger trying to crowdsource directions.

So you take a chance.

“Hi—I’m sorry if this is weird. I’m trying to find the gate to Tokyo, flight JL93. I can’t get any service, and I think I’m lost. If you know where to go… could you help?”

You hit send. Your heart skips. You almost regret it. But then, a notification pops up.

A picture. A marked-up map of the terminal. And a reply:

“Downstairs near the big bookstore. Look for Gate 27. I’m heading to Tokyo too.”

You blink at your screen. He replied? Your head lifts just slightly, scanning the moving crowd. Who is 8:09 to Earth?

You turn just in time to see someone a few feet away glance up from his phone—tall, black hoodie, messy light brown hair tucked under a gray beanie. He has one strap of a backpack slung over his shoulder and wireless earbuds lazily tucked into the front pocket of his hoodie. He raises his phone, tapping the corner like that was me.

You stare, stunned, as he gives a small smile. Not a grin. Just soft. Easy. Like he didn’t just save you from falling apart in the middle of Terminal C.

You mouth a thank you.

He nods once, then gestures subtly with his head in the direction of the escalator. Without saying a word, you fall into step beside him.