Chapter Text
“Attention passengers, please remain seated. We will be landing shortly.”
Jeongguk exhales and locks his phone, the screen going dark in his palm. He looks around the cabin, at the strangers shifting in their seats, stretching, already preparing to return to whatever lives are waiting for them outside this metal shell. He wonders what brought each of them here. Homecomings. Fresh starts. Mistakes they’re hoping distance will soften.
For a move this big, he feels… oddly blank.
It doesn’t quite register that this is Michigan. That the air he’s about to breathe will be different in a way he can’t name yet. He thinks of his parents again, of how many conversations this took, how many compromises. His mom’s voice surfaces first—steady, persuasive, tired but hopeful. His chest tightens, gratitude settling in like a quiet debt. He wonders how long it’ll take before he’s worthy of it.
A tap on his shoulder pulls him back.
He slides his headphones down. His seatmate is nodding toward the flight attendant.
“Drinks?” the airhostess asks, eyebrows raised.
“Oh… yeah.” Jeongguk gives a quick nod.
The flight attendant hands him a water bottle. The plastic is cold in his hand.
“So,” the guy says, settling back into his seat. “How’re you holding up?”
“Pretty good,” Jeongguk says. He twists the cap off, then pauses. “Haven’t really processed any of this yet.”
The guy chuckles. “Yeah, that checks out.”
They’ve been seatmates for thirteen hours now. Long enough for names.
“James,” the guy says, unnecessarily, tapping his chest again.
Jeongguk almost laughs. “I remember.”
James grins. “Fair. You don’t look like you’re panicking, though. That’s a good sign.”
“I don’t think I’m nervous,” Jeongguk says slowly, testing the words. “Just… blank.”
“That’s worse,” James says immediately, then laughs. “Kidding. Kinda.” James shrugs, takes a dramatic sip of apple juice. “Anyway, you’ll be fine. There’s literally everyone here. You’ll find your people. America’s kind of a mess, but it’s an inclusive mess.”
Jeongguk smiles politely, slipping his headphones back on before the conversation can stretch itself thin.
He isn’t worried about people. He’s learned how to be alone without making it tragic. Besides, Mingyu will be there, his cousin, practically a built-in anchor. That thought steadies him.
Still, something in his gut won’t quiet down. It isn’t fear. It isn’t excitement either. Just awareness. Like standing at the edge of something that doesn’t announce itself.
The plane dips lower. The land sharpens.
“Oh wow,” James mutters. “That never gets old.”
Jeongguk leans closer to the window. Roads intersect like clean lines on a blueprint. Buildings cluster and stretch upward. The scale of it all hits him at once, unexpectedly tender. His fingers itch for his phone.
“Pretty cool, right?” James says.
“Yeah,” Jeongguk answers, barely audible.
James goes quiet again, opening Subway Surfers like it’s a ritual.
The plane touches down. Applause breaks out somewhere behind them. Jeongguk exhales, surprised at how relieved he feels.
He starts packing early. He always does. Checks his pockets. Passport. Wallet. Phone. Again. He hates chaos, hates that rushed feeling where your brain goes static and suddenly everything feels like too much. He stands, grabs his carry-on, sits back down once it’s secured. One less thing.
“Attention passengers, welcome to Detroit Metropolitan Airport. Please remain seated until the seatbelt sign is turned off.”
Jeongguk peers out the window again. Airport lights stretch endlessly. He feels… giddy, suddenly. Like he’s trespassing somewhere important.
His phone vibrates violently in his pocket.
Signal.
He pulls it out. Messages flood in, family group chats exploding with heart emojis and poorly timed advice. He ignores them and texts Mingyu instead.
I landed.
Already here. Starbucks near arrivals. Don’t panic if you get lost.
Jeongguk smiles. Typical.
He finally calls his mom.
“Hello? Did you land? Are you okay?”
He laughs softly. “Yeah, Mom. Everything’s fine. The flight was okay. My body is mad at me, though.”
“Aww. But you made it. I’m so proud of you.” There’s a pause. “Be brave, okay?”
“I will,” he says, even though he isn’t sure what that means yet.
The call ends.
When they finally stand in the aisle, James shoulders his backpack. “Hey, good luck with everything, man.”
“Yeah. You too.”
James nods once, easy. “Don’t let the system eat you alive.”
Jeongguk smirks. “I’ll try.”
People shuffle with the shared impatience of having survived something together and now wanting distance from it. Jeongguk steps off the plane, the air immediately cooler, sharper. The jet bridge smells like metal and recycled air. His backpack tugs at one shoulder; he adjusts it automatically.
Welcome to the United States, a sign says in bold letters.
“Yeah,” he mutters under his breath.
Inside the terminal, everything widens. High ceilings. Bright lights. Too many signs all pointing in different directions. He pauses just long enough to feel stupid, then follows the crowd labeled International Arrivals. That seems safe.
The walk feels longer than it should. His legs are stiff, his brain a half-second behind everything. Screens flash instructions he only half-reads. He keeps checking his documents like they might vanish if left unattended.
Still there.
Immigration funnels them into lines that move at different speeds for reasons that feel arbitrary. He chooses one and commits. No overthinking. The people around him look calm, practiced. He watches how they hold their papers, copies them.
When it’s his turn, the officer barely looks at him at first.
“Purpose of visit?”
“Study,” Jeongguk says.
“University?”
He names it. The officer types, nods, flips through his passport. There’s a pause—just long enough for Jeongguk’s stomach to tighten, then a stamp, firm and final.
“Welcome. Next.”
That’s it.
He steps away, oddly anticlimactic, like something important just happened without asking his opinion. His shoulders loosen without him realizing they were tense.
Baggage claim is chaos in a different flavor. Carousels groan to life. People crowd closer than necessary. He waits, phone balanced in one hand, eyes scanning for his suitcase.
There.
He grabs it, heavier than he remembers packing it, and wheels it along, following Exit / Arrivals signs that feel mercifully straightforward.
Customs is another quick stop. A few questions. A nod. He’s waved through.
Then, suddenly—space.
The arrivals hall opens up loud and bright, full of movement and voices overlapping. Families hugging. Someone crying. Someone yelling a name that is definitely not his. He stops near the wall instinctively, taking it in, grounding himself.
Okay. Find Mingyu.
Starbucks.
He scans faces, then logos. The green siren appears like a landmark in a game. As he gets closer, he spots him immediately.
Mingyu is leaning against a pillar, one foot crossed over the other, phone in hand, iced coffee already half empty. He looks exactly like the dashing guy he is, tall and familiar in a way that makes Jeongguk’s chest loosen. Same stupidly calm posture. Same expression like nothing ever really stresses him out.
Their eyes meet.
Mingyu grins. “Took you long enough.”
Jeongguk laughs, relief cutting through the exhaustion. “I literally just landed.”
“Yeah, yeah. Welcome to America.” Mingyu pulls him into a quick, strong hug, then steps back, already reaching for the suitcase handle. “You hungry? Jet-lagged? Emotionally unstable?”
“All three,” Jeongguk says honestly.
“Perfect. You’ll fit right in.”
They start walking toward the exit, automatic now, Jeongguk matching Mingyu’s pace without thinking. Outside, daylight spills in, brighter than expected. Cars move past in steady streams. Everything feels loud and alive and indifferent in a way that’s oddly comforting.
As they step through the doors, Jeongguk glances back once at the terminal, at the place that marked the line between before and after.
Then he follows his cousin outside, into whatever comes next.