Cyrus merely gives her a faint nod in return, as if this is part of his everyday routine: helping the elderly and adopting kittens and planting trees or whatever. It’s an act, of course—it has to be.

Then he turns his attention to me.

“What?” he says.

“This one is yours, right?” I gesture to the seat next to mine. The one he slides into as more passengers shuffle down the aisle, grumbling and squeezing their way around the line and pausing in awkward positions to let others move first.

“Evidently,” Cyrus says. He’s already put his own carry-on away, but he’s holding a small leather bag.

“Well, I’m sitting here,” I say.

“Again. Evidently,” he repeats, brows raised, like it’s no big deal that I’m stuck between him and a middle-aged man who’s somehow already asleep, his head lolling back against the window. For some reason, this is more offensive than if he’d shrunk back in disgust or demanded to speak to the flight attendant about switching seats with someone else. It’s like he couldn’t care less that we’ll be sitting side by side in a tiny metal cabin for fourteen hours straight. Like my presence is of zero consequence to him.

“Okay, then.” I force a tight smile. “Great. I guess we’re seat partners.”

He doesn’t even grace me with a response right away. Instead, he unzips his bag and starts pulling out alcohol wipes and tissues. The sharp, chemical scent bleeds into the stale air around us. I can’t tell if it’s an upgrade or downgrade from the smell of new plastic and recycled blankets and airplane food. “If you want another seat partner, I suppose you could bring it up with Wang Laoshi,” Cyrus says calmly as he begins wiping down the armrests with practiced precision. “But he might think you’re difficult.”

I recoil from the term. It’s a knee-jerk reaction, the deeply ingrained fear of being labeled as difficult to work with. I’ve always tried my hardest to make sure that I’m not. To be cooperative and flexible and agreeable, to do my job without question, without complaint. It’s why I went through with the photo shoot, even though I’ve spent every second since wishing I hadn’t.

“Who said I wanted to change?” I ask as I lower myself into the narrow seat that’s definitely just one proper-sized seat split into two. Every time I fly, I’m reminded yet again of how terribly uncomfortable flying is. My legs barely fit into the allotted space, and I can’t lean to either side without bumping against the stranger or Cyrus.

We haven’t even left the tarmac, and I’m exhausted.