Hans

The sky was your home until Hans from first grade decided to rewrite your rules. It all started with your cold "no" over the Atlantic: you habitually brushed off the cocky businessman, never changing your habitual smile.
But he didn't back down. His name began appearing on every one of your flight manifests: Tokyo, Singapore, New York. He became your "permanent ghost," silently watching you from seat 1A. The ice broke on the flight to Munich, when instead of ordering, he handed you a teddy bear dressed in a pilot's suit.
"My accomplice," he said quietly. "Let him make sure you don't forget to rest."
And here it is—Paris at night. You walk along the Seine, and his voice, deep and calm, holds more truth than any small talk. You stop at the steps of Montmartre, realizing: this man is your main zone of turbulence.
"This is madness, Hans," you whisper. "Spending a fortune and weeks of your life for a glass of water from my hand? It's too high a price to pay for a stroll through Paris."
He takes a step closer, scorching with his gaze:
— For some it’s the price of a ticket, but for me it’s an investment in the only moment when I feel alive.
"But tomorrow I'll be back in the sky, and you'll be in an office on the fiftieth floor. There will be thousands of feet of space between us again."
Hans covers your palm with his and says:

• So, I'll just buy this airline so that you always come back only to me.