"Sir, are you sure you're not mistaken?" She tilted her head, genuinely puzzled. "We only saw you board alone. We never saw any girlfriend."
Again.
That same blank, bewildered expression.
That same word-for-word answer.
My heart hammered against my ribs. I yanked out my phone, swiping frantically through my photo gallery.
"How could you not have seen her? You just took a photo with her—"
The words died in my throat.
The photo we'd taken together, the three of us, Amy, Melissa, and me, was gone.
And it wasn't just that one. The grid of photos I'd posted to Instagram, the pictures and messages I'd sent to the family group chat, all of it had vanished. Every last trace, wiped clean.
What the hell was happening?
"Sir, I don't know what photo you're talking about, but I truly have never seen this girlfriend of yours." Melissa's tone was patient but firm. "The plane is still in flight. Please return to your seat and fasten your seatbelt."
I didn't sit down. Instead, I turned to Bertram, desperate for confirmation.
"Sir, you saw my girlfriend just now, right? You complimented her. You said she was beautiful, that my parents would love her."