I'm going to die.

Tears stream from my eyes - hot, blinding tears that blur everything around me. The breath forces its way out of my throat. I can't feel my lungs inflate and I'm desperate for air, desperate to stay alive.

I look up and I see him. He's right there in front of me.

I'm going to die. I can't breathe. My mouth is making loud, guttural noises as I attempt to inhale but my body doesn't want to cooperate. Everything is blurry and misshapen.

I'm ready to collapse, to fall to my knees and give up. This is where it ends, where they will lay me down to rest... behind a self-entitled lady taking up the entire width of the escalator with her luggage. Asking her to move ten times has done me no favors. 'I've asked ten times now lady - please fucking move!'

I rarely swear. I only ever use that kind of language in very dire situations. This is one of those situations.

'Excuse me!' Her voice is so high-pitched that it reminds me of my mom when she's about to tell me off for something.

I scowl. 'Yes, excuse you! That's what I've been trying to say. I've got ten minutes before my gate closes and I've been running for twenty minutes just to get to this point, where you, who clearly have nowhere to be, are in the way. Do you want to know what gate I need to get to? Eleven!' I point to the sign at the top of the escalator with a big arrow pointing to Gate Three. 'I have asked repeatedly if you could move your bags and you ignored me every single time. If saying the word fuck gets your attention, then fucking move it so I can get to my fucking gate. Please.'

I hate myself right now. I can feel the eyes of everyone burning into me, not only on this escalator going up, but the one going down too, like they're fascinated by the guy who is about to lose his mind in the middle of an airport. I have never had this much attention on me – ever – and I don't like it. I don't like the attention as much as I don't like the person I've become. I want them to stop staring but if making a scene means I can make it to my plane, then so be it.

I'm rather stubborn so I'm not going to apologize to her. The lady moves her luggage so I can start walking past her, and to solidify my stance in this situation, I mutter loud enough for her and several spectators to hear, 'honestly, only responsive to foul language, some people have no class.'

The old me would have said thank you but she's cost me time by ignoring my pleas to step aside. I could have explained that my previous flight was delayed, causing me to be late for this connecting flight home and she probably would have understood. But explanations take time and time is a luxury I can't afford. Before I can hear the people on the escalator resume conversation, I reach the top and head straight for my gate.

The only trouble is, I have no idea where that is! I've just passed gate three, but this airport is massive. That's not an exaggeration; it was named one of the biggest airports of all-time. Now imagine running all the way through it, from one end to the other with thick sweat running down your back as you run that marathon, without water or a rest stop, hoping to make that finish line.

Yeah, that's me, and I'm repulsive. I stink. I look like shit. The mane of hair on my head is soaked through. I overslept on the flight before this and I'm in that super-groggy state where I don't know if I'm actually awake or dreaming. No, this definitely isn't a dream. For one, I always look my best in my dreams. This is more a nightmare – and I'm going to miss my flight.

I catch a glimpse of myself in some of the reflective store windows as I run past them. I'm hideous, like the troll under the bridge in those nursery rhymes – or how I imagine that troll to look. That's funny. It reminds me of when I was a kid at school and people would call me the troll in the closet – something that hurt like a bitch back then.

Oh well, even trolls grow up into mid-twenty failures. The backpack that's tied to my back makes me look like a hunched demon of sorts, adding to my haphazard appearance. It's a shame I'm soon going to be sharing a flight with someone I thought I loved. The first person I ever thought I loved. I wonder if he's sitting on the flight right now, smug and condescending, even when I'm not there to be looked down on.

No time to even think about him, Gate 11 closes at 15:10 and it's now 15:05. I'm screwed. I'm royally screwed.

Gate 5.

Gate 6.

Gate 7.

I may just make this. There aren't that many people floating around which is fantastic. I won't have to swear at strangers or cause another scene, hallelujah! My throat is parched and I'm not sure I can actually speak.

'My name is Brando,' I mutter, testing out my voice. It's scratchy, meek. I need a drink. My thoughts drift to Starbucks as I pass it. Perhaps a quick one for the run? No! No time!

Gate 8.

Gate 9.

A mechanical whirring begins to hum next to me. I look to my right and realise it's one of those golf cart-like vehicles that I've seen transport passengers and their luggage. This one is empty. It could get me to my gate with seconds to spare!

I shout to get the driver's attention. 'Can I get a ride?' He turns and I'm surprised by how young he looks. Is he even old enough to drive? But his eyes are kind and he seems really friendly. His smile suggests I may have scored a ride.

'Sure,' he replies. I shoot onto the vehicle before I have time to say thank you. 'Where do you need to be?'

'Gate eleven,' I manage to say through gasping breaths. 'I need to get there quickly or I'm going to miss my flight. I can't miss my flight...' I think I'm going to cry. Warm, wet tears pool in my eyes. Shit, I am going to cry. I need sympathy. I need someone to help me get on that god-damned plane. 'I haven't been home in three months and...'

'We're here,' he interrupts.

I look around. 'Seriously? We're here?'

'You did get on at gate nine which is only a few feet behind us,' he replies with a grin. 'I hope you catch your flight.'

I jump off the cart and thank the driver. He's cute. Most likely straight too. Story of my life – always wanting what I can't have, and what I get, I don't want. But this guy has saved my life by bringing me here, even though that ride was absolutely unnecessary, he has still earned my eternal gratitude. Not all heroes wear capes.

So this is Gate 11? I've finally made it. Sweaty, crying, and practically dying, but I'm here bitches. My smile stretches so far across my mouth, it almost hurts.

A lone woman stands at the desk with not a single person in a line to go through. I must be the very last person, but why haven't they called my name on the announcements? Am I really that unimportant that the airline couldn't care less about one passenger missing his flight?

'Have I missed it?' I ask the attendant, though it probably sounds like I'm screaming at her. 'I'm sorry, I've just ran through the entire airport to get here. My connecting flight was delayed and I landed not long ago and–'

'Brando?'

That voice. That soft, enchanting, and slightly infuriating voice. It's him. But wait, why isn't he on the plane? I turn around to see him standing at the perimeter of a petite coffee shop. He's holding a cup of coffee and wearing a smug smile like a tuxedo, to boast his eternal happiness and good fortune.

'Why aren't you...' I start to ask until a sickening realization hits me. I return my focus to the woman at the desk. 'When is Flight 143 to New York boarding?'

'In an hour,' she says.

'It's not ten past three?'

'No, it's ten past two. You do know that daylight savings has ended, don't you?'

I'm so stupid! I didn't have time to turn my phone on after getting off my last flight and my watch is archaic. I'm the biggest idiot in this airport – my eyes flicker over to my ex – I'm the second biggest idiot in this airport. I just ran a good mile for no reason whatsoever. Oh, that poor woman on the escalator. No – don't feel sorry for her. She was rude. So was I. We are even.

Worse than any of that, Nicholas Johnson is a witness to it all. Nick. Nick the Dick, as I like to call him. Immature, but so satisfying. He's still standing there, watching me, expecting me to fall into the palm of his hand like I always do. Not this time, Satan; those dreamy eyes aren't as hypnotic as they used to be. I feel more attraction to a wet floor sign.

Okay that's not true but screw him. I need to use the nearest facilities and gather my senses so I'm just going to walk straight past him and to the bathroom. That'll teach him. Just watch me walk away, Nick. Don't follow me. Stay where you are with your overpriced coffee and wicked sneer.

I see him put his coffee down on a table nearest the door before he hurries after me. 'Are you avoiding me, Brando?'

'Heavens no! Not at all Nick. I just thought I might spend the next hour throwing up my guts because I all of a sudden feel sick to my stomach.' I say that deadpan. I feel woozy, sure, but I don't feel like I'm going to be sick. Not unless I have to keep listening to Nick drone on about his perfect life.

'Dramatic. Why don't you come sit with me and have a coffee? They're doing the gingerbread lattes for the festive season and I know they're your favorite.'

He knows me too well. I'm trying so hard not to look Medusa in the eyes but I can start to feel that magnetism pull at me. An invisible devil on my shoulder is telling me to look at him. Do it, do it, do it!

'I need to use the bathroom.' I can't say much more. Short responses are best right now. If I start having a full-on conversation, I'll be sucked back into the quicksand that is Nicholas Johnson.

'Then do join me when you finish.'

Did I also mention he's from England? He's lived in New York for about five years and I've known him for three and that's three years too many. It really doesn't help that he sounds like Jude Law. He doesn't look like him, though; Nick has jet-black hair and washed-out green eyes. Not as tall either, I'd imagine. I've never met Jude Law but I figure he's tall from all those movies I've seen, whereas Nick and I are around the same height. Five foot... something. Nine, maybe?

'Well?'

I remember to reply. 'If there's time, I mean, who knows how long I'll be in the bathroom for.'

'Splendid. While you're in there, could you wash your face? As cute as the wild and flummoxed look is on you, I don't want you to embarrass me in front of all these strangers. See you in a few minutes.'

'The only thing you need to be embarrassed about is your receding hairline.' He doesn't have one but I still want to cause some damage.

He doesn't respond since he's already on his way back to the coffee shop. He probably didn't hear me. I hurry to the bathroom, eager to survey the damage and see if I do look that bad. Not that it should matter, but still.

The bathroom is empty when I enter it and I plant myself in front of a sink and mirror. The water marks and fingerprints that cover the glass makes it hard for me to see properly. I sigh at the sorry sight reflecting back at me.

I splash water on my face – a lot of water – and it cools me down. I feel much better for it. Because of my airport marathon, my fringe is sticking up higher than usual. I sort that out too and immediately feel some of the shame lift. I'm starting to look and feel more human.

But the smell. I have nothing to help me in that department – no deodorants or aftershaves. That kind of stuff isn't allowed on hand luggage. I could buy some, but I don't have that much money to waste. I also have plenty in my suitcase and at home.

I hear a noise, a spray, coming from the stalls. My gaze follows the sound and settles on one of those automated air fresheners on the wall. That's what I need! I walk over to the toilets and stand on the seat. My hand can reach it fine but I can't open it. I struggle with the mechanism keeping it closed and then quickly give up.

I remain standing on the seat, waiting for it to spray. It should be any second now. I put my hands on the walls and lift my body up a little higher.

To my delight, it finally sprays. The small spits of fragrance rain down on me and I let them fall on my face and chest. Oh, how wonderful it feels to go from smelling like shit to smelling like less shit.

I throw my hands up in victory and wait for the next spray. I look around the bathroom in the meantime.

'Hi,' I say to the cute guy who has just walked in. My face drops. 'Oh. Shit.'

I said I very rarely swear unless in dire situations. Today is proving to be very dire indeed.

If you'd like to see me read this first chapter on my YouTube channel, you can check out the video here: