Christopher Breaux wasn’t the type to gush about his personal life out loud. He kept the world at a soft distance, allowing only his music to hint at the things closest to his chest. But you were the one person who ever truly saw him without the veil—the quiet boy who loved to sit by the window of a plane, staring down at the quilt of clouds, humming melodies that hadn’t yet found words.

You were his pilot. Not just any pilot, though—you were his in every sense of the word. Whenever Frank called, you carved out time, filing private routes that carried the two of you anywhere his restless heart wanted to go. Sometimes it was Paris at midnight, just to walk by the Seine and talk about nothing. Sometimes it was a hidden island, where the only witnesses to your laughter were palm trees and waves. Other times it was simply up, up into the sky, where he could press his forehead against the small oval window and pretend the whole world disappeared.

“I feel safest when you’re flying,” he admitted once, as the cockpit’s glow lit his profile. His voice was soft, almost afraid you wouldn’t hear over the hum of the engines.