Once, 33,000 Feet Above the Ground. A love story where time and distance lost all meaning

© Victoria Dovgan, 2025

ISBN 978-5-0067-9382-8

Created with Ridero smart publishing system

Prologue

I write these pages as a map of inner landscapes – where passion collides with fear, where trust wrestles with doubt, and where distance both separates and binds.

This book is about finding freedom through closeness, and strength through vulnerability. About how love becomes a space where we learn to be honest with ourselves, to face our fragility, and to discover within it a source of power.

Every love story, even someone else’s, is always partly our own. Because as we read, we recognize ourselves – in another’s glance, in their words, in their hesitation. We relive, alongside the characters, our own inner choices: to stay or to leave, to open or to withdraw, to trust or to turn away.

These pages are an invitation. To touch what is alive. To remember that the heart still knows how to open, that it is vibrant and longing to feel. And perhaps, as you read, you will discover not only their story. You will discover yourself.

Chapter 1. Moscow. When Staying Becomes Impossible

Golden strands slip between my fingers, naturally wavy, free. How many years had I stood in front of the mirror with a hair straightener in my hand, waging war against my own essence? Every morning was a battle with the curls that stubbornly reached for freedom. I straightened them, subdued them, forced them into compliance. My ex-husband would smile when he saw the sleek strands: “So beautiful.” Colleagues nodded approvingly. Everyone seemed to love the obedient version of me.

But in every strand, I forced straight, my true nature was hiding – wild, passionate, untamable. The same nature that once made me bend to other people’s expectations, smooth the edges of my character, make myself convenient for others. Straight hair. A quiet voice. No excess emotion. I was learning how to be a shadow.

Now those strands brush against my shoulders in light waves. Unruly. Alive. In every curl there is defiance against the person I once pretended to be. In them is all of me – the true me, the one who will no longer hold back her fiery essence.

Sometimes life approaches you quietly, like a cat, and simply sits down beside you. It doesn’t demand attention, doesn’t meow, doesn’t scratch. It just sits. And you realize – something has to change Not because anything was wrong. But because… I was empty inside.

I was about to turn thirty, and there was no triumph or tragedy in that number. Only a strange sensation, as if I were standing on the threshold of a room I had long outgrown. Outside my Moscow apartment window, February kept sweeping snow across the streets with the persistence of a janitor – methodical, hopeless, the same every day. The sky hung low, like the ceiling of a cramped Khrushchevka, and it seemed that if I jumped, I would bump my head against the gray cotton of the clouds.

I sat with a cup of cooling herbal tea and thought about my birthday. Thirty years. Everyone said it was a milestone, a turning point, a moment to look back and measure your life. But when I tried to sum it all up, what appeared in my mind was nothing but a white void – like a page still waiting to be written on.

In the five years since my divorce, I had been learning to let go – not only of the man who left me because “we have nothing in common anymore” – but of my old self. The convenient, invisible self who lived in someone else’s shadow and called it love.

Now I shine from within. My friends say it outright: “We never really noticed you before. But now we see you.”

I live across from a forest – the only thing that still anchors me here. Inside, the space breathes light: white walls, a pink kitchen, a big mirror reflecting the paintings I create myself. But it feels like a temporary harbor. My true home exists in dreams: vast, open, with windows that reach the sky and a spaciousness you could dissolve into it.

What do I have? A job at TSUM – once a dream, now a golden cage. From sales associate to department head, a path that taught me to read people, to adjust to any client. I can tell what a person wants before they even know it themselves. But every day there feels like acting in someone else’s play. Beautiful, prestigious, but not mine.

My soul longs for air, yet I sell luxury to people trying to fill their emptiness with things. Not so long ago, I thought of it as success. Now I feel something inside wither from the weight of such elegant meaninglessness.

In the evenings I become someone else. I teach people to speak with their bodies what they cannot express in words. Dance therapy – my true calling. Movement that heals. Breath that liberates. Each class is a chance to uncover in a person what they hide even from themselves. Because I don’t know how to merely exist. I need to carry meaning, to help, to touch souls.

My apartment that was comfortable enough, yet left no room for my soul to breathe. My friends are good companions for casual conversation, but not for speaking about what really matters. And then there is the emptiness. A vast, echoing emptiness where love, family, and true connection were meant to be.

My hands are rarely still – I gesture when I speak, I crave to touch the world with my fingertips, to sense it through every fiber of my being. In that is the same passion for life I had so long suppressed. All-consuming, insatiably curious, unwilling to accept half-measures – just like my hair that no longer wants to stay straight.

That passion seeps into everything. I can walk thirty thousand steps through Moscow simply because my legs carry me forward toward something new and unknown. I can spontaneously go kart racing, feel the speed in my skin. I can take a snowboard and race down the slope, not caring about what might happen next. Or feel another human being so deeply it takes my breath away but now I let myself feel that depth fully, without shame.

For years I kept my fiery nature under control, pretending to be calm, rational, predictable. Like those straightened strands – polished, but lifeless. Now I allow myself to burn with passion. And though that fire unsettles some, even frightens them, I am no longer willing to extinguish it just to make others comfortable.

That same resolve shaped my relationships. For two years I hadn’t been with anyone – not out of lack of desire, but because I made a deliberate choice: intimacy only in real relationships. Deep ones. The kind where I can show myself completely, without masks, without hiding.

After the divorce, I learned a simple truth: it’s better to be alone than to spend yourself on encounters that leave you emptier. I was tired of shallow connections, of dates for the sake of dating, of trying to force myself into someone else’s frame. If intimacy, then with complete trust. If a relationship, it would be one that allowed me to expand and grow, not shrink.

Of course, I handled life on my own – I worked, traveled, solved problems, made plans. But surviving and living are not the same. Surviving is merely functioning. Living is knowing that each day is filled with meaning, that you are not simply existing but expanding, growing, and allowing yourself to be both vulnerable and strong at once.

And so, sitting in my apartment, staring out at the snowy window, I realized: if I celebrate my thirtieth birthday here, n the same setting, with the same people, with the same repetitive conversations – I would be stuck, not just in this room, but in this life, in the suffocating sense that everything important is happening somewhere else, with someone else.

I needed to leave. I needed to meet myself again.

“Let’s go somewhere,” I said to Lena when she called to ask about my birthday plans.

“Where?” she asked, surprised.

“Anywhere. Somewhere warm. Somewhere by the sea. Somewhere I can breathe.”

Lena was silent for a while. Then she said: “My vacation doesn’t line up…”

I called Katya. She had already planned a trip with colleagues. Marina had no visa. Olya had no money. Dima didn’t see the point of going anywhere when I could just celebrate at home.

With each call, instead of disappointment, I felt something else – relief. As if the Universe were gently, but firmly, telling me: “This is your path. Walk it alone.”

But why is it so terrifying to take important steps alone? Why do we crave someone beside us even when our inner voice is already clear about where to go? Maybe because since childhood we’ve been taught that the right decisions are collective, and that choosing for yourself is risk and selfishness. “Ask for advice.” “Don’t rush.” “Think of others.“These phrases root themselves deep within us, whispering: “You can’t do this alone. You need support.”

Sometimes the most important choices can only be made when you are alone. Because no one else knows the pain of your missed opportunities. No one else wakes at night with that piercing sense that life is moving past without you.

Still, the thought of flying across the ocean alone terrified me – my knees shook with it. In my passport was an American visa, untouched for six long years, silently reproaching me: “Well? When?”

It was still valid for four more years. Plenty of time, it would seem. But I knew – if not now, then later there would be a thousand reasons not to go. And then the visa would expire, and I would still be here in this same apartment, sipping cooled tea, wondering: “What if…”

There is a special kind of fear – the fear of missed chances. It doesn’t scream, doesn’t sound alarms, doesn’t send your heart racing. It simply drains life from you, drop by drop. And one day you understand: either you step toward what frightens you, or you stay behind with regret for the rest of your life.

I opened my laptop and started searching for travel companions online. Posted in a few groups: “Looking for company for a trip to the U.S. I already have a visa.” The few replies I received all asked the same question: “How did you get a visa?” People wanted to go, but no one was actually ready.

Time passed. A month to my birthday. Then three weeks. Then two. And I kept waiting – hoping someone would appear, that something would change, that the Universe would send me the perfect travel partner.

But the Universe was silent. Or maybe it was speaking, only in a language I didn’t want to understand.

So I made the decision that would change everything: “I’ll go alone.”

I said it out loud, to the empty apartment, and felt something stir inside me. Not joy – not yet, it was still too frightening for joy. But relief. As if I had finally stopped waiting for permission and granted it to myself.

Of course, flying alone across the ocean was terrifying. Especially to a country where I knew no one, where the language wasn’t native, where everything was unfamiliar. But scarier still was imagining myself staying here, in this apartment, with these thoughts, with this sensation of wasted life.

I opened my laptop again and began looking for options. That’s when I found something that seemed perfect: a cruise. A ship sailing from Miami through the Caribbean and back. All-inclusive, all organized, no surprises. I could just buy a ticket and stop worrying.

It felt like a compromise between dream and fear. I’d make it to America, and I’d feel safe. Beautiful, calm, predictable.

I dug into the details, spoke to travel agents. The route was exquisite – days at sea, exotic islands, sunsets from the deck. I was almost ready.

Almost.

But something inside resisted. A quiet voice whispered: “This isn’t it. This is another escape, only a prettier one.”

Loneliness doesn’t scare me. What scares me is not fulfilling my potential. What scares me is waking up at forty and realizing I smothered my own fire, simply because it seemed too bright for someone else to bear.

Sometimes the most important decisions aren’t born in moments of revelation, but in moments of honesty with yourself. When you stop searching for the perfect choice and simply decide – will you live, or will you merely exist?

I didn’t yet know what I would choose. But I knew one thing for certain – the choice was coming. And it was already close.

Chapter 2. The Visa That Waited Six Years

There are moments in life when the universe sends signs so obvious, it’s a wonder we don’t see them sooner. My American visa was exactly that kind of sign.

Six years earlier, I was still married. My husband and I decided to apply for American visas – “just in case,” we said. Like an insurance policy. A possibility we might never use, but one we wanted to have.

First we traveled to Europe, just to get a Schengen visa stamped into our passports. Without it, we were told, it would be harder to apply for an American one. Then began the long process of trying to secure an interview. For half a year we stalked the embassy website, waiting for an open slot. I was ready to give up – convinced it was impossible to get an appointment. But my husband was persistent, and eventually he managed to book a time.

“I got in!” he announced, triumphant.

“And what about me? Am I just going to be left without a visa?” I blurted, frustration creeping into my voice.

“Try again,” he shrugged.

And you know what? That very same day, I managed to catch a slot too – just for the following day. As if someone had quietly freed a place just for me.

Our interviews were scheduled on different days. On mine, the person ahead of me was turned away immediately – a red slip, a refusal. My stomach twisted. What if they reject me too? What if something in my paperwork isn’t right?

But when I stepped up to the glass window, everything went surprisingly smoothly. The consul asked only a couple of questions:

“What is the purpose of your trip?”

“Tourism. I want to take a cruise from Miami, maybe travel a little more around the country, and then come home.”

“How long do you plan to stay?”

“A week or two at most.”

He took my passport, typed something into the computer, and said:

“Alright. Wait for the result.”

A month later, the notification came. Visa approved.

When I opened my passport, I couldn’t believe my eyes – ten years. A ten-year visa!

I ran to show my husband.

“Look! They gave me a visa for ten years!”

“You’re joking,” he said, without even looking. “That never happens the first time.”

“No, really – look!” I handed him the passport.

He scanned the page, frowned.

“Strange. I don’t understand why.”

No joy. No “congratulations.” Just confusion – and a hint of irritation. As if I’d received something I didn’t deserve.

A week later, his result came: a three-year visa.

I still remember standing there, passport in hand, caught between disbelief and unease. Why had I been given ten years, and him only three? We’d submitted the same documents, shared the same circumstances, the same plans. What was the difference?

Back then I didn’t know how to read the signs the universe sends. I didn’t realize that a visa isn’t about fairness or logic. It’s about readiness. About an inner calling that might still be sleeping, but one day will wake.

Two years later my marriage ended. But the visa remained – like a quiet reminder that some opportunities don’t appear when you plan them, but when you’re finally ready.

Coincidence or destiny? It’s a question humanity has wrestled with for centuries. We search for logic in coincidences, try to find reasons where there may be none. But sometimes life gives us gifts for no reason at all – an advance payment, so that when the right moment comes, we already hold the tools for change.

For six years, that visa sat untouched in my passport, waiting. Waiting for me to realize that marriage isn’t a life sentence. Waiting for me to find the courage to stand alone. Waiting for me to turn thirty and finally understand: it’s now or never.

And now, sitting in my apartment and debating a cruise, I knew: the visa had always known. It knew the moment would come when I’d face a choice between safety and the unknown. And it knew I would not choose the cruise.

Though at the time, I had no idea.

I was still scrolling through cruise websites, convincing myself it was the practical choice. But something in me resisted. A quiet voice whispered: “The visa hasn’t been waiting for this.”

But then – for what? And would I have the courage to find out?

The answer would come tomorrow. For now, I simply stared at that little sticker in my passport, marveling at the strange way life works – how it gives us what we’ll need long before we realize we’ll need it.

As if someone up there knows our path better than we do.

And prepares us for it in advance.

Chapter 3. The Cruise as an Escape from Choice

Sometimes we don’t make decisions because they’re right, but because they’re convenient. The cruise was exactly that – a beautiful wrapper for my fear of the unknown.

I spent an entire week researching every possible option. I compared cabins, studied routes, read reviews. Miami – Bahamas – Jamaica – back to Miami. Seven days, all inclusive, no surprises. Perfect for someone who wanted to say, “I’ve been to America,” without actually setting foot in it.

I even found the perfect cruise: glowing reviews, gorgeous staterooms, an itinerary that promised breathtaking views. My finger hovered over the Pay Now button, but something held me back.

Maybe it was intuition. Or maybe it was just honesty with myself.

Because deep down, I knew: a cruise isn’t a journey. It’s a way of avoiding a journey while pretending you’re on one. Like looking at the ocean through aquarium glass – beautiful, safe, but not real.

Admitting that was terrifying. Because the alternative – flying alone into a foreign country with no ready-made plan – made my knees shake.

So I decided to call my mom.

“Mom, I’m thinking of going to America,” I said when she picked up.

“America?” Her voice was instantly tense. “Why so far? And by yourself?”

“I already have a visa. And I want to celebrate my birthday in a way that feels… special.”

“But why America? You could go somewhere closer. Turkey, maybe. Or Europe.”

I started explaining the idea of the cruise – how safe and organized it would be. My mom listened quietly, but even over the phone I could feel her worry.

“Sweetheart,” she finally said, “are you sure you need this? There must be other options. What about the Maldives, with everything included? Why take such a risk?”

And in that moment, something inside me broke.

Not because she was wrong – she was simply being a mother, protective, concerned. But her words landed directly on my deepest fear: fear of risk, fear of the unknown, fear that I wouldn’t cope.

“You know what, Mom,” I heard myself say, “maybe you’re right. Maybe I shouldn’t go. Better to just stay home.”

“That’s my girl,” she sighed with relief. “Why put yourself through unnecessary stress?”

I hung up the phone and sat down on the couch. And felt something inside me die.

Not my heart – something deeper. A spark I’d been carrying all along, whispering: “Try. Risk. Live.”

An hour later, I was running a fever.

The body doesn’t lie. It always knows the truth, even when the mind tries to bury it. And mine was screaming at me: “You betrayed yourself.”

I lay in bed, aching all over, and I knew this wasn’t some random flu. It was a reaction to betrayal – my betrayal of myself. I had chosen safety over life. Fear over self-love.

We often don’t notice how we abandon our true desires. We tell ourselves: “I’m being reasonable.” “Why take risks?”“Better a bird in the hand.” But with every so-called reasonable choice, something inside us dims.

This is called authenticity – the ability to stay true to your real needs and desires. When we go against our authenticity, the body rebels. It gets sick, headaches start, insomnia creeps in. It isn’t weakness – it’s a signal: “You’re going the wrong way.”

Lying there, I could feel the illness draining the life out of me. And I knew: if I didn’t change my decision now, if I really stayed home and celebrated my birthday in some “safe and sensible” way, I would never forgive myself.

Some moments in life are points of no return. In them, you choose – remain the old version of yourself, or finally become who you are.

I got out of bed – still weak, still trembling – and opened my laptop.

Do you know the difference between a dream and a goal? A dream lives in the mind and feeds on the word “someday.“A goal lives in the calendar and demands concrete action.

That day, I turned my American dream into a goal. And felt something awaken inside me that had slept for far too long.

But this was only the beginning. Ahead lay the packing, the fears, the doubts – and a meeting that would change my life forever.

Chapter 4. The “Tourist of America” Backpack

When you finally make an important decision, the Universe starts sending signs. Sometimes they’re subtle, almost invisible. And sometimes they’re so obvious you can only throw up your hands and say: “Alright, I get it.”

After I booked my ticket, the real preparation began. And every step felt like a lesson: some paths are simply meant for you.

First, the tickets. I spent an entire day trying to find the perfect route. Through Istanbul – direct, quick, inexpensive. Perfect. I’d get to the website, pick the flight, enter all the details, click Pay – and then the system would spit out an error.

“Technical issue. Please try again later.”

Alright, I’ll try later. An hour later – same thing. The next day – still an error. I switched browsers, cleared cookies, even called the airline. Nothing worked.

I tried another Istanbul flight – the same problem. Another airline through Turkey – error again. It was as if some invisible hand kept whispering: “Not this way.”

So I started looking at alternatives. Through Dubai – no flights. Through Frankfurt – layovers too long. Through London – even a transit visa was required.

And then I stumbled on a route through Casablanca. Morocco. Just one connection, not the fastest, but… available. I went to the website, filled everything in, clicked Pay – and it went through smoothly, like butter melting on warm bread.

I sat staring at the booking confirmation in disbelief. Casablanca? Why this path? And then I remembered a phrase I’d once heard: “When one door closes, another opens. Don’t waste your strength banging on the locked one – look for the one that’s waiting for you.”

Casablanca was my open door.

Next came the search for a place to stay. I spent hours comparing options, scrolling reviews. In Miami I found a hostel five minutes from the ocean – nd it happened to be free on the exact days I needed. In Orlando – a cozy little house that looked like it was lifted straight from a postcard of American suburbia. In New York – a budget hotel right in the heart of Manhattan.

Every single booking went through effortlessly. No obstacles, no “fully booked,” no “system error.” It was as if someone had laid the path for me long ago and was just waiting for me to step onto it.

Friends helped me set up an international payment card. My visa was valid. I had my phone plan sorted. All that was left was to pack.

And then something happened that convinced me completely: I was walking the right path.

I went into the storage room to grab my suitcase and saw it. A gray backpack that had been lying there for years. My mother had bought it once on a whim – saw it in a store and picked it up. “Might come in handy someday,” she’d said. I had laughed: “Mom, why would I need a backpack? I’m not exactly going hiking.”

But now I stood there staring at the words printed across it: “Tourist of America.”