**WATTYS 2022 WINNER** Seventeen-year-old Evelyn Werth is on an endless flight from hell. She's the only person onboard Aloha Airways Flight 1333 who's caught in a 28-minute time loop.
During each cycle, four things happen:
1. The Internet goes out...
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Loop 397
Sheer moments after the loop re-starts, Rion's standing next to me.
"What was that?" he pants, struggling to catch his breath. "The baby started crying and the oxygen masks dropped! That was different from all the other times the plane nosedived, and not different in a good way!" His eyes focus on me, waiting for me to say something.
But I'm speechless. My word fuel tank hit empty.
I drop Margaret's bag to the ground and shift over into the empty seat, not even bothering with pleasantries. Apparently, there's no time for that anymore.
"Sorry folks," the pilot interjects, "we've lost Internet connection. It will hopefully be back up soon. And please remain in your seats, we're approaching a patch of turbulence."
I reach under the seat, grab the pacifier and hand it back to the woman. Rion is still, rooted to the spot.
I take a deep breath, and our eyes lock. Even across the boarding gate at the Hawaiian airport I noticed how crazy blue his eyes were, but seeing them up close during these past few loops is something else entirely. I never realized they were this blue. It's as if the cloudless blue sky and the dazzling blue ocean met halfway and stopped for a quick chat at a corner café, and that corner café just happened to be in Rion's eyes.
It's still strange to me that he's awake. After so many loops watching him asleep, I can't believe that he's now in this with me. My partner in crime. Or rather, my partner in trying to prevent an epic disaster. And while I wouldn't ever wish this on my worst enemy, and certainly never anyone as kind – and ridiculously handsome – as Rion, there's something nice about not being alone anymore. Although that thought makes me feel incredibly guilty sometimes.
He sinks into my assigned seat, and I realize he's waiting for an answer. About why this last nosedive was different. Why the baby cried and the oxygen masks dropped.
But I don't say anything. Can't say anything.
There's nothing to say.
Heather reaches our row and offers us snacks, but this time we ignore her. She leans over and hands Margaret a packet.
"Don't do this," Rion's voice is low. I buckle from the scent of the coconut sunscreen coating his arms, a remnant from his time on the island. He leans in closer, and my stomach dips, remembering how it felt when he held my hand. "You keep doing this. I realize you've had to deal with these loops on your own for a long time. But Evelyn, we're a team now. I'm your teammate. You can't keep running away from things. Talk to me."
