You see them in the in-between hours.
Not the departure rush. Not the arrival gate.
The hours where time softens and nothing moves except the ceiling fans and the condensation sliding down the glass.
They sit alone more often than not. Bar stools. Train stations. Ferry decks.
Places where no one asks questions and no one expects answers.
Their eyes carry the weight of it. Not sadness exactly. Not exhaustion. Something quieter. Something earned.
They know better than to trust a first impression.
They know how to watch without staring, how to listen without interrupting.
Their passports are heavy. Their stories are light on details.
They drink whatever’s cold. They eat what’s served. They sleep when the body demands it.
There’s no bravado left in them. No declarations. Just movement. Forward, sideways, away.
Not lost. Not searching. Just unwilling to stop.
Their clothes don’t look new. They look lived in. Salt from the sea, sweat from the road, creases from being folded too many times in too many places where laundry costs more than a meal.
They’ve learned how little they need. They’ve learned how to leave without ceremony.
Sometimes they talk about love like it’s a city they left too soon.
Sometimes they don’t talk at all.
The modern escape artist isn’t chasing a destination.
They’re chasing the silence between arrivals. The clarity that only comes when you’re nowhere you’re supposed to be, and no one’s waiting for you to come back.
They understand this truth better than most.
Jet fuel. Sweat. Cheap beer.
That’s the price of freedom.
Not everyone’s willing to pay it.
Some of us are.
