Your Exits are Here, Here and Here
“Keep your seat-belt fastened when the light instructs you to do so.
In the event of an emergency, secure your own oxygen mask before helping others.
Keep your tray table locked and upright when landing.
Familiarise yourself with the emergency exits.
Shove the life you imagined yourself living underneath the seat in front of you.
If it doesn’t fit, store it in the overhead compartment with everybody else's baggage.”
The day we ended things
I was somewhere over the Java Sea–
two hours into a seventeen-hour flight.
17A. Denpasar to Singapore.
Economy class. Window seat.
Knees pressed to plastic.
Spine folding in on itself.
Fifteen hours left to fall out of love–
not enough time.
I’d spent weeks wading through saltwater
and something else:
a slow, circling knowing
that stuck to my skin
like cheap sunscreen—
thick, cloying, impossible to rinse off.
Freckles bloomed across my nose
in constellations of rust and red.
You once said I looked beautiful sun-kissed.
So I let the sun have me.
Burnt. Blistered. Bloody.
The man beside me was flying home from a wedding.
His girlfriend had caught the bouquet.
He showed me the ring—
silver, trembling, certain.
Said he hadn’t told anyone else.
Said it felt like a secret made of sea-glass.
He asked if I was flying home to someone too.
I didn’t know how to answer.
Because the last time I was on a plane,
I was flying back from Florida.
Back to you.
We weren’t together,
but I wanted you in ways
you didn’t know how to be wanted.
That flight, I realised I loved you—
like a fever,
like landing gear always searching
for ground that wouldn’t take me.
You said I was your closest friend.
Said you didn’t want to lose me.
And I mistook that for devotion.
I was a stray you half-fed out of guilt.
Learned to sit. Stay.
Roll over when the loneliness hit.
You never had to ask.
I came running—
chest open,
calling it connection.
You rationed yourself
like airline peanuts—
salted, measured,
wrapped in just enough foil
to feel deliberate.
Still, I devoured every word.
Still, I read your silences
like scripture.
Still, I believed
signal loss was the reason you disappeared.
It’s funny, isn’t it—
how both the beginning and the end
happened mid-air:
the Atlantic. The Java Sea.
When the plane touched down,
my phone buzzed with an email:
Tell us about your experience.
I laughed.
God, I laughed.
Florence Limb is a 25-year-old lesbian artist and emerging force in contemporary theatre. Her work is deeply rooted in her queer identity, with a bold and unapologetic voice that explores intimacy, identity, and resistance. This summer, she is taking two original theatre productions on a national tour, marking a major step in her rising career. Committed to equity and representation, Florence uses her platform to amplify voices from marginalised communities, weaving their stories into the heart of her creative practice.