Accompanying Song: Beyoncé, Halo
Nestled within JFK, the Chelsea Lounge felt like a cathedral at this late hour—vast, hushed, and reverent in its emptiness. The marble bar stretched before me like an altar, gleaming softly beneath a canopy of glass pendants that hung from the ceiling like frozen tears. Each one caught the dim light, refracting it in delicate, shimmering patterns. They reminded me of stained glass windows in a church, casting a holy glow over the room, transforming this quiet space into a sanctuary for the weary.
I didn’t notice him at first. Or maybe I did—a flicker of movement in my peripheral vision, a strange presence I couldn’t quite place. But I ignored it. The last thing I wanted was to make small talk with another tired business traveler.
Then I felt it—a strange pull, almost like someone tapping on my shoulder without touching me. I glanced to my right, and there he was. My first impression was of a devilish, debonair man of Middle Eastern descent, impeccably dressed yet with an undeniable edge, like a character who’d stepped out of some darkly enchanted tale. His suit was charcoal-gray, tailored to fit his athletic frame with an almost supernatural precision, uncharacteristically accented with a Roman collar. Silver and black hair slicked back, revealing a sharp widow’s peak, framed a face both mischievous and enigmatic. I stole a quick glance at his hands and noticed his fingers were unadorned. There was a hint of rascal in the slight curl of his lips, and his eyes—deep-set and gleaming—held an unsettling intelligence and intuition. He was both magnetic and unnerving, the kind of figure you felt compelled to keep in your sight, if only to guard against the tricks he might play the moment you looked away.
I raised an eyebrow, voice clipped. “Excuse me, but… do I know you?”
He seemed to snap out of whatever trance he’d been in, apologizing for staring. I didn’t quite catch his words over the hum of the lounge, but his expression conveyed an odd mix of guilt and curiosity.
I watched him stand, drink in hand, and make his way over. He slid onto the barstool next to me, and in that instant, my body tensed, torn between recoiling and a sudden, unexpected desire to close the gap. There was something about the way he looked at me that made me feel… exposed.
“Hi, my name’s Atman,” he said, offering a small, almost shy smile.
I hesitated, glancing away before finally nodding. “Sasha.”
“Would you mind if we moved to a table?” he asked, gesturing at the stools. “Somewhere a bit more private.”
Surprisingly, I found myself agreeing. I don’t know why; maybe it was that strange pull I’d felt, or the curiosity about what this unusual man might say. I gathered my things with practiced efficiency and followed him to an L-shaped booth beside the floor-to-ceiling windows that framed the runway. I tucked myself into the corner as I settled.
I excused myself to the bathroom, feeling a sudden need to freshen up. The sharp tap of my black stilettos against the Italian marble floors echoed through the lounge. Beneath the cold, sterile glare of the fluorescent lights, I adjusted my short, sandy blonde hair in the mirror and smoothed down my silky blouse and sleek charcoal-gray blazer. While gazing at my reflection, a sly smile crept across my face. This could be interesting. As I meticulously applied another layer of crimson lipstick, I indulged in a playful vision of my clothes and Atman’s tossed carelessly across a hotel room floor. I caught my own gaze, surprised at the spark of intrigue in my eyes. What’s his story? What does this silver fox do when he’s not haunting quiet lounges and watching people with that knowing look? The thought lingered, tantalizing and unanswered.
When I returned to our table, I watched a plane lift off into the night, my mind drifting, picturing it struggling against gravity, only to fall in a spectacular burst of flames—a dark fantasy of release from the unbearable pressure of flight.
He sat comfortably composed, cross-legged, exuding quiet authority. I could feel him studying me, looking at me in a way that was unnerving, as if he could see past all my carefully constructed walls. I wanted to ask him to stop, to back off—but I didn’t. A part of me, a part I kept buried, wanted to be seen. Wanted someone to witness… what, exactly? The cracks? The fractures beneath the surface?
Clearing my throat, I forced a casual tone. “So… what do you do for work, Atman?”
He smiled, and there was something in that smile that felt almost dangerous. “I witness. I listen and see people. Some call me a Soul Gazer.”
I let out a laugh, sharp and skeptical. “Oh, so mysterious. Is that your schtick? Are you some kind of TikTok guru? Hang out in airport lounges and mystify middle-aged women?”
To my surprise, he didn’t flinch. His eyes held mine, calm and steady.
Something in his gaze wiped the smile off my face. His words were too certain, too measured, and somehow, they made me feel exposed in a way I hadn’t felt in years. My laughter died, and I looked at him properly, really looked. In that moment, I knew he was searching for something about me or inside of me—not the version of me that appeared in polished photos and curated LinkedIn and Instagram profiles, but the real me—the raw, flawed, hidden self I didn’t let anyone see.
Before I could steel myself, he was inside my mind, my heart, slipping through every defense I had. I want to see you, Sasha. Show me your long suffering. His voice was like velvet dragged across gravel, reverberating through my entire essence.
I felt him peeling back my layers, and a torrent of memories I’d kept buried rose to the surface—memories I’d spent my whole life running from: the betrayals in my childhood, the men I’d trusted who’d broken me, and the subsequent resentment I held against men. Growing up in a crumbling, war-torn Ukraine. Leaving my family behind to chase a better life, only to end up chained to a wealthy man who kept me safe and yet… caged. Desperately desiring children, but unwilling to raise them within the confines of my own deception. The clandestine nights spent in hotel rooms with random affair partners during business trips, trying to fill a void I didn’t understand. The weight of secrets, layered over each other like sediment at the bottom of a deep, dark well.
And then, beneath it all, I felt the emptiness—a vast, hollow ache, a place where my center had been swallowed whole. The infinite loneliness I pretended wasn’t there. The silent despair of a solitary cell, yet one where every lock was open, every door unbarred. I could step out at any moment, into the unknown world beyond. But that was the true prison—my own fear and helplessness held me captive, my unseen wardens.
I didn’t realize I was shaking until I felt the glass slip from my hand. Setting it down, I noticed my shoulders trembling as the weight of everything I’d been holding back came crashing down. Before I knew it, I was sobbing, my mask abandoned on the table, tears streaming down my face. I wrapped my arms around myself, desperate to hold onto any part of myself, to keep from completely falling apart.
But Atman just watched, quiet and still, letting me unravel in front of him without judgment.
When the wave finally passed, he pressed a clean handkerchief into my hand. I took it, numb and trembling, wiping my face as I tried to catch my breath. I looked up at him, my voice barely a whisper. “What… what did you do to me? I feel like I’ve just… shattered.”
In his somber gaze, I saw my own anger and hurt mirrored back at me, as if he’d taken on the burden of my wounds. Somehow, holding that handkerchief felt like holding onto a lifeline, something grounding me, keeping me from floating away into the void. As I looked down at the handkerchief, I noticed a faint outline—a ghostly face woven into the fabric, staring back at me.
When I looked up again, something in me had shifted. I could feel it—a fragile spark, a tiny glimmer of light piercing through the shadows I’d carried for so long. I was still raw, still aching, but the emptiness didn’t feel hostile or pain-filled. It was as if something deep within me had been excavated and absolved.
The pain wasn’t gone. It was still there, heavy and unyielding. But now, it was… seen. Acknowledged. And in that, there was a strange sort of freedom. I wasn’t hiding anymore. And somehow, as I sat there, meeting his gaze, I felt lighter.
Still seated in calm authority, Atman’s gentle eyes held mine, and a delicate, spiritual light seemed to shimmer faintly around him, like a halo. I was unprepared for the depth of connection I felt—a presence that was both deeply spiritual and undeniably healing.
A notification lit up on my phone—a flight update, departure in two hours. Though I felt a tug to stay, a childlike voice, long forsaken, deep within urged me to trust and let go. “Well, it seems it’s time for me to go. It was truly lovely spending this time with you.” Atman nodded, his eyes still locked on mine, that steady smile never wavering. As I walked away, I looked back one last time, our gazes meeting in a silent exchange, a message he heard: Thank you for truly seeing me. For seeing my soul. I hope our paths will cross again—when I’m ready.
Staring out the window of the airplane, my thoughts drifted back to Atman. For the first time, my heart and mind felt completely clear. The usual voices of doubt had gone quiet, replaced by the presence of a young girl, one I’d silenced for too long. In that peace, I found something small—a precious part of me, like an embryo free from fear, finally ready to fly.
