"It wasn't over because I was there. It was over because you were."
He absorbed that quietly.
Then nodded.
"You're right."
We walked in opposite directions.
That was the last personal conversation we had for a long time.
The anniversary of the Cancun flight arrived without ceremony.
I noticed the date because our scheduling system assigned me another Cancun turn.
For several minutes, I stared at the trip pairing on my tablet.
Same destination.
Different flight number.
Different departure time.
Different life.
I considered dropping it.
Then I asked myself whether I actually did not want to fly Cancun or whether I wanted to avoid the memory of one specific flight.
I kept the trip.
Lena was not on the crew this time. Captain Reynolds had retired three months earlier. Most of the people working with me had no idea what that route meant.
That felt right.
Not every important place in your life remains marked for other people.
Sometimes the world returns a location to you by treating it as ordinary.
During boarding, I stood at the aircraft door.
"Good afternoon. Welcome aboard."
The words felt exactly the same and completely different.
Couples boarded.
Families boarded.
A group of college friends wearing matching vacation shirts boarded.
A man in a white linen shirt stepped through the door and for half a second my body reacted before my mind did.
He was not Ryan.
He smiled and handed me his boarding pass.
"First time in Cancun," he said. "My wife planned the whole thing."
His wife appeared behind him, rolling her eyes affectionately.
"He packed three pairs of dress shoes and forgot sunscreen."
I smiled.
"Sounds like you're ready for vacation. Row seven is on your right."
They moved on.
My heartbeat settled.
That was recovery too.
Not never remembering.
Remembering and continuing.
On that second Cancun trip, I did something I had refused to do the first time.