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  As the ink bled into the paper, her mind drifted. Soon, she fell asleep. The next morning, she woke to find something pressed gently into her palm.

A button.

Worn, round, faintly scratched.

One she knew well—from Randy’s old coat. Her fingers curled around it instinctively. 

She didn’t cry. She simply sat up, eyes focused on the soft light breaking through the blinds. She would be leaving soon. The plane ticket had been arranged. 

But her gaze held a strange calm—not fear, not regret. As if, somehow, she already knew what was coming. 

I found another letter in Zara’s handwriting. It was dated March 8th—the same day she was supposed to board a flight to Europe. 

Only she didn’t. 

The letter was brief, but unflinching. She had changed her plans. She booked a different route—a flight MH370 bound for Beijing. 

Yes, that MH370—the one that vanished without a trace. The one that disappeared off the radar with 239 souls on board. The flight that left Kuala Lumpur on March 8th, 2014.

The realisation struck me like a tremor through the chest. No one had known—not her classmates, not her teachers. 

Maybe only her twin sister. A secret held tight. A secret heavy enough to drown in. But something didn’t make sense.