Jane gripped the armrest as the plane began to move onto the runway. She closed her eyes tight and took long, deep breaths, but none of this helped to remove the anxious ache in her stomach. She had to do this without Kurt, but at the same time, she needed him now more than ever.

She'd booked her ticket for the flight to Nepal during the previous night, once Kurt was fast asleep. Her heart had practically shattered when she had to request for one ticket instead of two. For the past few weeks, she'd been receiving anonymous phone calls, letters, packages, all with the same message - leave New York or your family will pay. She'd been hiding the messages the entire time; she knew that he was overwhelmed at work, and she didn't want to add to his load. It killed her to lie to him, to be so secretive, to leave him, but it was her only option. She needed to protect him, and hopefully, one day, he would understand that.

This was the thing, though - she'd never been on a plane without him before. To be fair, they never got the opportunity to fly much anyways - work was always a constant beck and call - but when they did get the chance to fly, they'd always done it together. He knew that she was terrified of flying, and so over time, he'd learned little techniques to help her remain calm during flights. Her favourite one was simple but extremely effective - he would take her hand in his and trace the honeycomb tattoo on the back of her hand with his thumb. It always managed to help slow her heart rate and breathing. But this time, she was on her own, and she didn't have him to comfort her.

As the plane gathered speed, she felt her pulse quicken more and more. She hated this, every bit of it. She wanted more than anything to get off the plane and return home to him, snuggle back into their bed with him, where she belonged. But she couldn't. She knew she couldn't.

Her knuckles turned white as she gripped the armrest harder. Suddenly, the plane was in the air, soaring vertically against the early sunrise. She didn't dare look out the window, she knew it would only panic her further. To distract her, she reached into her bag and took out a pencil and her sketchbook, setting them on the fold-out table on the back of the seat in front of her. She stroked the spine with her hand, tears trickling down her cheeks. She'd only been away from him for two hours, and she already missed him like hell. How on earth was she going to cope for the next few weeks? Months? Maybe even… years? Her entire body shivered at the thought of being away from him for that long. She'd always hated the nights when she would end up in their apartment alone because he had to stay late at work. The place never felt right without him at night - or any time of day, for that matter. She craved him constantly, no matter how far away he was. And now, she was the one who was going away. And she couldn't bare it.

She wiped away the spilled tears from her sketchbook. In the rush to leave that morning, she'd made a mental note to grab the sketchbook. A few years previously, when she'd been taken by the CIA, they'd gotten rid of what few possessions she'd had at the time, and that included her first sketchbook. A few days after they'd started dating, he'd noticed that she didn't have her old sketchbook anymore.

"Where is it?" he'd asked as he'd wandered around the living room in her safe house.

She'd looked down at the floor embarrassingly, not wanting to delve into the past again, not wanting to remind him of the pain that he'd partially caused her. "The, uh… the CIA took it, whenever… whenever they took me. And I never got it back".

She'd looked up at him gingerly, to see that his expression was filled with sorrow and guilt. "Shit. I'm sorry," he'd whispered.

She'd shaken her head, wanting to get as far away from the topic as possible. "It's fine, don't worry about it. I, uh, I wouldn't even use it much now, anyways". That had been a lie - she'd missed that book desperately since it had been taken away from her, but she didn't tell him because she didn't want him to feel responsible for any of that.

However, the next day after work, he'd taken her to the local arts and crafts store, and he'd bought her a new sketchbook, almost identical to her old one. She'd tried to argue with him on it, saying that she wasn't dependent on it anymore, but he'd insisted on buying it.

Her eyes welled up with even more tears as she recalled the happy memories. God, she hated this.

As if it was perfect timing, one of the air stewardesses came round. "Would you like any refreshments, madam?" she asked politely, before registering that Jane was crying. "Or a… tissue?"

Jane looked at the stewardess quizzically. "What? Oh… no, I… I'm fine. Thank you".

Respecting Jane's wishes, the stewardess continued walking down the aisle, but her confused expression remained intact.

Now that they were comfortably the air, Jane's anxiety began to calm slightly, but she still felt that desperate need to have him with her. With her hands still shaking, she carefully untied the ribbon on the side of her sketchbook and flipped it open. Ironically, it opened at a page where she'd sketched a portrait of his face. She remembered when she'd done it too. It had been a quiet Sunday evening. They had been lying on the couch together, their legs entwined, when she'd suddenly felt the urge to sketch him. He'd just looked so peaceful, watching the world go by with her outside their window. Although he chuckled slightly at first, he'd eventually fallen into the role of being her muse. He sat still and patiently as she'd sketched every feature on his face, and had marvelled at her talent when she'd finished, planting a kiss on her lips. She traced the pencil lines now with her finger, longing for the real him instead of a drawing.

She was exhausted, more tired than she could ever remember being. She couldn't recall the last time she'd had a good night's sleep, and she knew with confidence that she wouldn't have one now in the near future, especially when he wasn't going to be sleeping beside her, his arms wrapped around her waist. After a while, her eyes began to droop as the plane floated through the skies. She knew that she should take advantage of the plane's steadiness, as turbulence was bound to kick in at some point. So, she took the sketchbook, held it tightly against her chest, and closed her eyes.

She dreamt of lazy Sunday evenings on the couch. She dreamt of post-work drinks. She dreamt of their hands intertwined and his lips against her neck. She dreamt of home.

She dreamt of him.