The airport felt colder than I remembered, though it might have been the stares that made me feel that way. I kept my head down, gripping my boarding pass tightly, as if it was the only thing holding me together. The scar across my face was still fresh and healing, but to the outside world, it might as well have been a brand. It was the first thing people saw now. I’d been in a car accident a month earlier. When the airbag deployed, it sent a shard of glass slicing through my face. The doctors did their best to close the wound, but the jagged line left behind was unavoidable. My dermatologist called it “early scar tissue”—red, shiny, and raw.
The scar ran from above my hairline, cut across my brow, and slashed down my cheek to my jawline. Part of my eyebrow was gone, and a deep indentation remained where the wound had been worst. For weeks, I couldn’t bear to look at myself in the mirror. Eventually, I had to. My friends tried to make me feel better. They told me I was still me. They said the scar made me look strong. Maybe even mysterious. But when people stared—or worse, when they looked away quickly—I felt more like an object than a person.
The healing process was tedious. Every day I applied the creams and ointments prescribed by my dermatologist. I kept the skin moisturized and clean. But nothing could change how raw it looked, how the harsh red line screamed for attention no matter how much I tried to blend it in. I knew it would fade in time, but the thought that it might never fully disappear settled heavily in my chest. That day, I boarded early, hoping to avoid the crowd. I slid into my window seat, tugged my headphones on, and closed my eyes. I prayed for an uneventful flight. I was almost asleep when I heard them. Loud voices. “You’ve got to be kidding me,” a man snapped. “These are our seats?” His irritation was palpable. “Row 5B and 5C,” a woman answered. “It’s fine. Just sit down.” They made a big show of settling in next to me. I kept my eyes shut, pretending I was asleep. But then the man spoke again. “We paid for these seats and have to sit next to—” he trailed off. “Next to what?” the woman asked, her voice sharper now.
Then she saw me. “You’ve got to be kidding.” My heart pounded. “Hey, lady!” the man barked. I slowly opened my eyes and turned to him. He flinched at the sight of my face, then scowled. “Can’t you cover that up or something?” I blinked, too stunned to reply. “Tom,” the woman hissed, covering her nose with her sleeve. “That’s disgusting. How did they let her board like that?” “Exactly!” Tom leaned forward, pointing. “This is a public space. People shouldn’t have to see that.” Shame and anger flooded me, but no words came out. “Are you just going to sit there?” the woman spat. Tom waved over a flight attendant. “Hey! Can you do something about this? My girlfriend is freaking out.”
The flight attendant arrived, calm but firm. “Is there a problem, sir?” “Yeah, there’s a problem,” Tom said, jabbing a thumb in my direction. “She’s upsetting my girlfriend. Can you move her to the back or something?” The attendant looked at me for a moment, her face softening before she turned back to him. “Sir, all passengers are entitled to their seats. Is there something I can help you with?” “I told you what the problem is!” Tom snapped. “She should have to move or cover it up.” “I can’t even look at her,” the woman added. “I’ll throw up.” The attendant’s tone cooled. “Sir, ma’am, I’ll need you to lower your voices. This behavior isn’t acceptable.” Tom scoffed. “She’s scaring people!” Ignoring him, the attendant crouched down beside me. “Miss, are you alright?” I nodded stiffly. She straightened. “I’ll be back,” she said before heading toward the cockpit.
The cabin was silent but tense. I stared at the seatback, willing myself not to cry. A few rows back, someone whispered. I assumed it was about me. Then the intercom crackled. “Ladies and gentlemen,” the captain’s voice came through, “we’ve been made aware of behavior that does not align with the respectful environment we uphold on this flight. Harassment and discrimination will not be tolerated.” A ripple ran through the cabin. Passengers glanced toward our row. Some shook their heads. The attendant returned, standing tall. “Mr. and Ms., you’ll need to move to seats 22B and 22C.” “What?” Tom barked. “We’re not moving!” “This isn’t negotiable,” the attendant replied. “Your behavior has disrupted the flight. We need to ensure a comfortable environment for everyone.” “This is ridiculous,” the woman muttered, pulling her sweater tighter. “She’s the problem!” The attendant didn’t flinch. “Please gather your belongings.” Furious, they grabbed their things and stormed toward the back of the plane. Someone clapped. Then another. Soon the cabin was filled with scattered applause. I bit my lip to hold back tears—tears not from shame, but relief.
The flight attendant turned to me. “Miss, I’m so sorry. No one should be treated like that.” I nodded. “We have an open seat in business class,” she continued. “We’d like to move you there.” “I don’t want to cause trouble,” I murmured. “You’re not causing trouble,” she said gently. “Please. Let us take care of you.” I nodded again. In my new seat, she brought me coffee and cookies. As I looked out at the clouds, I finally allowed myself to relax. And for the first time in weeks, I felt something warm and unfamiliar. Hope.
