Paper Planes

The first time Mira saw him, he was folding a paper plane.

She had been sitting by the classroom window, chin propped on her hand, watching the dull afternoon light spill across the desks. Outside, the world hummed along—cars rushing past, vendors calling out their prices, birds tracing invisible patterns in the sky. But inside, the air was heavy with the monotony of another school day.

And then, there was him.

A boy with ink-stained fingers, carefully creasing the edges of a scrap piece of paper, his brow furrowed in concentration. He tossed it lightly, and for a moment, it soared—really soared—before dipping and crashing onto Mira’s desk.

She picked it up, smoothing out the wrinkles. On one wing, in untidy handwriting, were three words: Do you fly?

Mira didn’t know what possessed her to reply. Maybe it was boredom, or curiosity, or the way he didn’t seem to care about the dull weight of the world pressing in on them. She took out her pen, wrote back, Not yet, and sent the plane gliding back.

That was how it started.

The Language of Paper

His name was Aidan. He sat two rows behind her and had a habit of drumming his fingers on the desk when he was thinking. His shoes were always scuffed, like he spent more time running than standing still.

Every day, they exchanged paper planes, scribbling notes on the wings. They talked about the sky, about dreams too big to fit in their small town, about places they wanted to see.

If you could be anywhere else, where would you go? he wrote one afternoon.

Mira thought about it. She had never really considered the world beyond the one she knew. But Aidan made it seem possible, like life was something you could step into, instead of just letting it happen to you.

She wrote back, Somewhere where the sky never ends.

Aidan grinned when he read it. Then we better learn to fly.

The Ground Beneath Their Feet

But dreams don’t always have wings.

One evening, Aidan didn’t come to school. The next day, still no sign of him. On the third day, Mira found out—his family was moving. His dad had lost his job, and they were packing up, leaving everything behind.

She tried to act like it didn’t matter, like it was just another thing in life that slipped through your fingers. But the emptiness in the classroom was unbearable.

Then, on his last day, a final paper plane landed on her desk.

She unfolded it with shaky hands. Meet me at the old train station. One last flight.

The Flight That Mattered

The station was abandoned, rusted train tracks swallowed by weeds. The air smelled like rain, and the sky stretched wide and endless.

Aidan was there, standing by the platform with a backpack slung over one shoulder. When he saw her, he held up a single paper plane.

“This one’s special,” he said. “It’s got all our dreams in it.”

Mira took it, fingers trembling. The paper was covered in their messages—scribbled wishes, plans that never got past words. She swallowed the lump in her throat.

“What if it doesn’t fly?” she whispered.

Aidan smiled, the kind of smile that made the world feel a little bigger. “Then we’ll build another one.”

Together, they threw it into the wind.

For a second, it hung in the air, weightless and perfect.

Then, like all things, it disappeared into the sky.

Years Later…

Mira stood at an airport gate, a one-way ticket in her hand. She traced the edges of an old, worn paper plane tucked inside her pocket, the last remnant of a boy who once taught her how to dream.

Somewhere where the sky never ends.

She smiled, stepping onto the plane.

This time, she was finally flying.