I've been trapped on a flight for 3 days. The other passengers are doing the exact same things on repeat. 28 hours ago, I boarded a redeye flight from Chicago to Denver. It was supposed to be a quick 2-hour flight for a work conference. I grabbed a window seat in the back and settled in for what I thought would be an easy trip. The plane took off normally around midnight. I dozed off almost immediately, exhausted from a long day of meetings. When I woke up to turbulence, I checked my phone,
expecting to see we were landing soon, 3:47 a.m. We should have landed over an hour ago. I looked out the window and froze. Instead of the Rocky Mountains I was expecting to see, there was nothing but dark ocean stretching endlessly in every direction. That made no sense. There's no ocean between Chicago and Denver. I pressed the call button and waited. A flight attendant appeared almost instantly, but something was wrong with her face. She was smiling, this huge unnatural grin, and tears were
streaming down her cheeks. "How can I help you?" she asked in this overly cheerful voice. "Where are we? Why are we flying over water?" She wiped her face, but kept grinning. "Don't worry, sir. We'll be landing in Denver in about an hour, but we should have landed already. What time is it? About an hour until landing," she repeated, still crying and smiling. After she left, I checked my phone again. 3:47 a.m. Exactly the same time as before. I stared at it for what felt like 10
minutes, but the numbers never changed. I opened my laptop. 3:47 a.m. Started a timer app on my phone and watched both clocks. An hour passed according to my timer, but both clocks still showed 3:47 a.m. The time was frozen. I tapped the shoulder of the businessman sitting across the aisle. Excuse me, how long have we been flying? He looked at his watch. About 2 hours. Should be landing soon. What time do you have? almost 4:00 a.m. Why? I showed him my phone. This says 3:47 and it hasn't changed in over
an hour. He looked at me like I was insane. Your phone's broken, buddy. We'll be landing in Denver in about an hour. That's when I noticed his eyes completely glassy, like he was sleepwalking. Same with the woman next to him. All the passengers had the same vacant stare. I tried talking to other people, but they all gave me identical responses. We'll be landing in about an hour. Everything's normal. Your phone must be broken. 5 hours into this nightmare. I decided to explore the
plane. I walked to the front and tried to peek into first class, but a male flight attendant blocked my path. He had that same disturbing grin and tears pouring down his face. "Sir, please return to your seat. We'll be landing in about an hour. I've been hearing that for 5 hours. Please return to your seat," he repeated, grabbing my arm with surprising strength. His grip felt like metal clamps. I went back to my row and kept timing everything. According to my stopwatch, I've now been on this plane
for 28 hours. The flight attendants keep serving the same meals at the same intervals. Passengers keep using the bathroom at exactly the same times. Everything's on a loop. But the most disturbing part is the crew. They never stopped crying. They served drinks with tears streaming down their faces while maintaining those horrible smiles. They make announcements about landing in about an hour while sobbing. 6 hours ago, I tried to get into the cockpit. I made it halfway down the aisle before
three flight attendants surrounded me. All grinning, all crying, all speaking in unison. Sir, please return to your seat. We'll be landing in about an hour. They escorted me back with grips that left bruises on my arms. That's when I started paying closer attention to the other passengers, really watching them. They're not just vacant eye. They're repeating the exact same actions in loops. The woman in 12 C takes out her book at the same moment every cycle. The man in 8A always orders a ginger ale at
the exact same time. The kid in 15 F always starts crying at the 3-hour mark. It's like their robots running a program. 2 hours ago, something different finally happened. The woman in a business suit walked down the aisle toward the bathroom. Unlike everyone else, her eyes looked alert, aware. As she passed my row, she dropped a folded napkin on my tray table without stopping. I waited until no flight attendants were watching, then opened it. Day 847. Are you new? My blood went cold. I grabbed a pen and wrote back 28
hours. What's happening? I left the note on my tray. When she returned from the bathroom, she picked it up without looking at me. 20 minutes later, she dropped another note. Plane crash 847 days ago. We're all dead. Flight attendants are trying to keep us calm while we process dying. Time loops help us adjust. Most passengers don't remember yet. You're remembering too fast. I stared at the note until my hands shook. I wrote back. How do I get out? Her response came an hour later.
You don't, but you can help others remember. The attendants get more violent when too many people wake up. That's why they're crying. They know what they have to do. I looked around the cabin with new eyes. The woman in 12C wasn't reading her book. She was staring at the same page, unblinking. The man in 8A wasn't drinking his ginger ale. He was just holding it, the liquid never decreasing, and the flight attendants. Their tears weren't from sadness. They were from the strain of
maintaining this illusion for almost 3 years. As I'm writing this, I can see one of them walking toward me with that same horrible smile. She's carrying something behind her back. Sir, she says, voice cracking through her sobs. I'm afraid we're going to experience some more turbulence. Please return to your seat and fasten your seat belt. will be landing in about an hour. But this time, her smile is different, more desperate, more afraid. And I realize the turbulence isn't weather.