Leaving His Passenger Seat Behind

Summary

When I canceled the ticket to Iceland—the one I’d spent six exhausting months trying to secure—the airline agent sounded genuinely bewildered.

"Are you sure? There are only two seats left on this flight, ma'am."

I nodded, though she couldn't see me. "Yes. I'm sure."

Every February for the four years we’d been together, Connor flew to Iceland.

He always called it a personal photography project. His Instagram was a stark, beautiful catalog of glaciers and the Northern Lights. I had begged him to take me, to let me see the aurora just once.