Mr. Heavy

A HEAVY tag was placed on my suitcase: flashing orange, clashing violently with the scratched black leather.

It was crinkled and scarred from past travels, the kind that looked as if it didn’t want to be here, or anywhere for that matter.

Today it looked worse than usual: swollen and pregnant with a promise of a new future.

Half of it was packed in an orderly fashion. The other half was chaos: wires curled like parasites through jumpers and tops, jeans I might eventually fit into again, a pair of slippers crushed sideways, and other things I was convinced I couldn’t live without but had already forgotten.

“I don’t think they even make suitcases this big anymore,” the taxi driver had said, looking at it, from different angles, as if marvelling at an ancient artefact.

It was, actually, pretty ancient. A veteran with a broken wheel that dragged slightly behind, leaving a faint line on the airport floor as we approached the check-in desk.

But it did its job. Though every time I wondered if it would be its last rodeo.

That morning I had spent ages kneeling on top of it, digging my knees into its skin, praying the weathered zip wouldn’t give up.

“Just one more time,” I pleaded.

The zip closed with a reluctant sigh.

If it ever encountered its long-lost family, they probably wouldn’t recognise it. Or maybe they had all retired long ago. But my suitcase - a skeleton of plastic and fabric, was still holding on.

Holding everything, actually.

It clutched my clothes, my notebooks, my memories. Old birthday cards. Postcards I never sent. A blue dress I might eventually wear. And if it ever went missing, a small part of me would too.

I looked at the flight timetable.

London Gatwick - 20:15. Delayed.

Of course it was delayed.

But strangely, I didn’t mind this time. A flight delayed is time gained, and I was delaying my future anyway.

The thought of living in another country always sounds romantic at first, I thought as I queued for a caffeine fix. Until it becomes routine. Until the novelty wears off and you realise you can’t live like a tourist every day.

I looked around the café and tried to guess who was a tourist, who was leaving home, who was going to work, and who, like me, was still trying to figure out where that was. My mind drifted back to my suitcase, bursting with memories and things.

I settled into a couch in the café with my backpack beside me and the ghost of the suitcase still perched on my shoulders. Despite my aching back, I felt lighter.

Who was I, without all my things, even briefly?

From where I sat I could see the departures board.

Wroclaw.

Marrakech.

Berlin.

Brussels.

What if I boarded a plane that had nothing to do with the life I was supposed to begin in London? I pondered as I sipped my coffee. Maybe that’s what everyone secretly thinks in airports - staring at a list of cities in search of an alternative future.

London Gatwick - Delayed. Even more.

I played the audiobook version of Anna Karenina to distract myself.

I ordered another coffee. I didn’t want it, but my body insisted, the same way you know you should eat when you’re sick.

The busy airport softened into a gentle blur around me. The cries of a child. Fuzzy boarding announcements. The distant grinding of the coffee machine. This all merged with Tolstoy’s words, humming through my headphones. Someone was arguing about love. I couldn’t follow anymore.

My thoughts drifted back to the suitcase.

Heavy.

The tag had been right, and not only my shoulders agreed with that.

Inside it were all the things I refused to abandon: notebooks full of half finished thoughts, old cards, clothes I never quite knew how to style.

I wondered if the suitcase was tired of me. Sick of being dragged everywhere. Sick of not having a home, but still somehow collecting dust everywhere it went.

Maybe it would decide to go to Wroclaw this time. Or Marrakech.

My coffee went cold. I gave up trying to stay alert and let my eyes fix themselves on a receipt lying on the floor. Slowly the receipt blurred and the sounds of the airport faded into a quiet hum, the coffee grinder, the child, Tolstoy...

After that, I must have fallen asleep.

When I opened my eyes, someone was sitting in the chair right beside me.

My coat had been draped over it earlier. Now it was wearing my coat.

My suitcase?

Somehow balancing on the chair, its broken wheel was sticking out awkwardly. Its scratched leather was hidden beneath the coat like a cloak.

I stared at it.

It groaned slightly.

“Well,” it said.

It sounded like an old man.

“You seem uncertain”.

“Hello,” I said cautiously, wondering where to look. It didn't have eyes, obviously. “About what?”

“About where we’re going”.

I shifted my weight. “We’re going to London”.

“I know that,” it said and coughed like a smoker.

“All that dust,” it added.

I felt my cheeks getting warm. “We’re going to London,” I repeated.

The suitcase titled slightly. “You don’t sound convinced”.

I hesitated. At that moment I noticed we were alone in the café. The departures board behind us was blank.

“Tell me something,” it said, leaning closer with effort.

“Why did you pack the blue dress again?”

“I might wear it”.

“You’ve been saying that for five years”.

“That’s not true”.

“You said it in Prague”.

I looked away. The suitcase continued, gently resting its rough surface against the table.

“And the postcards?”

“I like my postcard collection”.

“Postcards are meant to be sent”.

“I might send them”.

The suitcase nodded slowly. “Of course. Ms Might”.

I smiled to myself. “They’re memories” I said. “The dress. The postcards”.

“But you remember them already” it replied. “That’s what memories are”.

I frowned. Suddenly, realising I was arguing with my suitcase.

“You’re a suitcase”, I said.

“You’re avoiding the point”.

It leaned back slightly in the chair, looking down at its cracked wheel.

“If you want a new life,” it asked more gently, “why did you bring me with you?”

I didn’t answer. The scratches in his skin looked like wrinkles under the café lights.

The departure board flickered back to life.

Wroclaw.

Marrakech.

Berlin.

Brussels.

The suitcase watched me carefully.

“I don’t want to feel heavy anymore”, it said quietly.

I opened my mouth to respond, to reach out towards it.

But the crying of the child pulled me back into the café. People had returned. The departures board had changed, showing a new list of cities.

Someone else was complaining about love in Anna Karenina.

The chair beside me was empty and my coat lay exactly where I had left it.

And in what felt like no time, my flight was boarding.

I slept the entire flight, thinking about what my suitcase had said.

If I was Miss Might, he was Mr Heavy, I decided.

At baggage claim in London, the carousel groaned into motion. Suitcases appeared one by one, reunited with their owners. Small suitcases seemed excited, like children seeing their parents after a long day.

My suitcase emerged slowly. Scarred. Familiar.

The HEAVY tag stuck out from its side like a bandage. It tumbled out, then blended into the sea of luggage.

Suitcases left one by one, leaving empty spaces on the belt.

The carousel kept turning.

But mine never reappeared. Instead, something orange was stuck to the carousel.

I picked it up. It was the tag. This time something had been written on it in black pen.

HEAVY

Only if you carry it.

I looked around.

But Mr.Heavy was nowhere to be seen.