Paper Airplane

Jenny had been making paper airplanes during her lunch break for three weeks now, not because she particularly enjoyed origami, but because the alternative was sitting alone in the office break room, scrolling through social media and pretending she had somewhere else to be.

The 47th floor of the Meridian Building offered spectacular views of the city, and the small balcony outside the conference room had become her refuge. She'd fold her planes from discarded memo paper, reports that were destined for recycling, and the occasional takeout napkin. Then she'd launch them into the afternoon sky, watching them catch the wind currents between the skyscrapers.

It was silly, she knew. A thirty-two-year-old accountant playing with paper toys. But there was something therapeutic about the precise folds, the careful balance of weight and aerodynamics, and the brief moment of flight before her creation disappeared into the urban canyon below.

On Thursday of her fourth week of aerial littering, Jenny decided to write something on the airplane before launching it. Nothing profound – just "Hope your day is going well!" in her neat handwriting across one wing. She sent it sailing into the wind and watched it spiral down toward the street, carried by an updraft toward the building across the way.

She didn't think about it again until Monday, when she found a paper airplane sitting on her desk.

It was made from expensive resume paper, the kind with a subtle watermark and crisp edges. The folds were precise, professional, and across one wing, someone had written: "Thank you for the kind message. Mine is now. - A"

Jenny looked around the office, but everyone was buried in their morning routines, coffee cups and keyboards and the soft murmur of phone calls. She unfolded the plane carefully, smoothing out the creases. The paper was blank except for that single message, but somehow it felt like the most meaningful communication she'd received in months.

At lunch, she folded a new airplane, this time using good paper from her own notebook. "I'm glad to hear it," she wrote. "Sometimes we all need a reminder that someone cares. - J"

She launched it toward the same building where she thought her first plane might have landed, watching it ride the air currents with surprising grace. This time, she stayed on the balcony longer, scanning the windows across the way for any sign of movement, any indication that someone might be watching for her paper messenger.

The next morning, another airplane waited on her desk.

"I work on the 52nd floor," the message read. "I've been watching for your planes since that first one landed on my balcony. It made me smile on a day when I really needed it. - A"

This began a correspondence unlike anything Jenny had ever experienced. Each day, she would find a new airplane on her desk, and each lunch break, she would send one back. The messages started simple – observations about the weather, complaints about work, small kindnesses wrapped in aerodynamic engineering.

"The sunset from your side of the building must be beautiful," A wrote.

"It is," Jenny replied. "But I think sunrise from yours might be even better."

"Coffee shop on the corner has the worst service but the best chocolate croissants."

"I know! I go there every Thursday. We've probably stood in line together."

"Today marks six months since my divorce was finalized. Strange to count time that way."

"I'm sorry. Time has a way of healing if we let it. - J"

"Thank you. I think I'm finally ready to let it."

The exchanges grew more personal, more intimate in the way that anonymity sometimes allows. A told her about a daughter who lived across the country, about weekend visits that never felt long enough. Jenny shared her fear of always being alone, of watching her friends pair off and start families while she remained in the same small apartment with the same daily routine.

"Do you ever wonder what would happen if we met?" A asked one day.

Jenny stared at the message for a long time before writing her response. "Sometimes. But maybe some connections are meant to exist exactly as they are."

"Maybe," A replied the next day. "But maybe some risks are worth taking."

Winter arrived early that year, bringing winds too strong for paper airplanes. Jenny tried launching several, but they were immediately swept away, lost in the chaos of swirling air and early snow flurries. She found herself missing the daily exchange more than she'd expected, checking her desk each morning out of hope rather than expectation.

For two weeks, there were no airplanes.

Then, on a particularly gray Tuesday, Jenny found something different on her desk – not an airplane, but a simple white envelope with her initial written in familiar handwriting.

Inside was an invitation to coffee, signed "A (Alex)," with a phone number and an address for a small café she'd never heard of, tucked away in a neighborhood between their two office buildings.

Jenny held the note for a long time, reading it over and over. The careful handwriting, the simple paper, the vulnerability in those few words. Alex had signed with a full name, breaking the beautiful anonymity that had sheltered their friendship.

She looked up at the building across the way, scanning the windows on the 52nd floor. Was Alex looking back? Were they having the same conversation with themselves about risk and connection and the safety of distance?

That evening, Jenny stood outside the café for fifteen minutes before going in. It was smaller than she'd expected, with mismatched chairs and the kind of worn wooden tables that suggested years of quiet conversations. She ordered a coffee and chose a table near the window, checking her phone every few minutes.

At exactly six o'clock, a woman walked in – mid-thirties, professional but kind-looking, scanning the room with the same nervous energy Jenny felt. Their eyes met, and Jenny felt a shock of recognition that had nothing to do with appearance and everything to do with something deeper.

"J?" the woman asked, approaching the table.

Jenny nodded. "Alex?"

"Alex." She smiled, and Jenny realized she'd been picturing that exact smile for months. "Thank you for coming. I wasn't sure you would."

"Thank you for asking. I wasn't sure I would either."

Alex sat down, and for a moment they just looked at each other – two people who had shared thoughts and fears and hopes through folded paper and careful handwriting, now face to face in a coffee shop that smelled like cinnamon and possibility.

"So," Alex said finally. "Do you still make paper airplanes?"

Jenny laughed. "Actually, I've been practicing. I learned some new folds."

"Show me?"

Jenny pulled a napkin from the dispenser and began folding, her fingers moving with practiced precision. Alex watched intently, asking questions about technique and balance. When Jenny finished, she handed the plane to Alex.

"Make a wish," Jenny said.

Alex closed her eyes for a moment, then opened them with a smile. "Already came true."

Outside the window, the city lights were beginning to twinkle on, and somewhere between their first coffee and their second, Jenny realized that some connections really were worth the risk of coming down to earth.