There’s something weirdly cozy about snagging the window seat on a plane. That little rectangle of glass, turning the clouds into a live screensaver, feels like a tiny luxury. People fight for it—to catch the sunrise, the endless blues, or that first glittering glimpse of city lights as the plane descends.
But me? I always pause.
Don’t get me wrong—I love the view. It’s just… every time I raise my phone to take a picture, a small, stupid voice in my head whispers: What if you see something? Something… off.
Maybe it’s from watching too many movies. That Twilight Zone episode where the gremlin’s ripping apart the wing? Burned into my brain forever. Or The Langoliers, where the sky isn’t just empty—it’s wrong. And don’t even get me started on the idea of spotting a face—something not human—pressed against the other side of the glass. Nope. No thank you.
It sounds silly until you’re cruising at 30,000 feet, and the only thing between you and the endless void is a flimsy pane of plastic and sheer denial.
So yeah. I usually don’t take pictures from the window seat.
But today, I did.
And before I hit the shutter, I stared a little too long at that patch of sky—half waiting for something to stare back.
