Briefing Room Breakdown

T vs EmpT

Every briefing, it begins.

T shows up.
Early. Uniform crisp. Mentally ready.
Heart open to new experiences.
Eager to meet new people.
Full of energy.
Happy to help.
Hopeful, even.

EmpT sits just beside him.
Slouched. Spiritually vacant.
Staring into space, wondering if that stain on the carpet is a metaphor for his life.
Or maybe for the coffee he never had.
One of them nods.
The other… floats.

T walks in and offers a bright, chirpy “Good morning!” He means it, every syllable. It’s not just polite; it’s a genuine, I-hope-today-does n’t-suck kind of greeting.

What he gets back is a mixed buffet of humanity: a nod from someone who might be asleep with their eyes open, a raised eyebrow from the crew member who clearly thinks emotions are a form of weakness, …and of course, the most subtle of them all. The Lip. That magical Filipino greeting where no words are spoken, just a tiny upward pout of acknowledgment. Somewhere between “hello” and “look over there,” it’s like Morse code of the face. I never know if I’m being greeted… or if she wants to kiss me. And one very energetic “HEY! GOOD MORNING!” that temporarily restores his faith in people.

T chooses to focus on that one. The warm one and lets it energize him.

EmpT, on the other hand, is already scanning the room like he’s about to hand out yearbook superlatives.

“That one’s the fake friendly,” he mutters internally. “She’s on her fourth sector and already dead inside. Oh look, it’s the guy who turns every announcement into a TED Talk.”

His eyes keep scanning.

“That one’s been ‘almost quitting’ for the last three years.
That one’s only cheerful when the CSD’s watching.
That guy’s hair has more confidence than his voice.

He pauses as someone enters the room dramatically late, coffee in hand and not a single apology in sight.

“And that one,” EmpT whispers with a sigh, “that one’s the main character today.”.

Before the service carts, before the door checks, before the awkward “can I help you with your bag” moments—there’s a briefing.

And every time, the same two versions of me show up.

T: bright-eyed, hopeful, pen ready, ready to make this a good day.
EmpT: slouched, cynical, already emotionally clocked out.

And the introductions begin…

👤 Crew 1:
“Hi, I’m a rejoiner.”

T:
Smiles warmly
“Oh, how lovely. It’s always nice to have someone returning. Must feel like coming home.”

EmpT:
“Translation: I quit, missed the staff travel, and now I’m back pretending I found myself.”

👤 Crew 2:
“Hi, it’s my first solo flight in business class!”

T:
Supportive nod
“She’s nervous. I’ve been there. We’ll look out for her.”

EmpT:
“Great. Another emotional support trainee. Can I opt out of the mentoring package?”

👤 Crew 3:
“Just the name. No experience details.”

T:
Nods respectfully
“Some people are private. That’s fine.”

EmpT:
“Oh? A mystery? Hope she doesn’t also ‘forget’ how to close the galley bins mid-flight.”

👤 Crew 4:
“Hi! I’m super excited to be flying with all of you! Let’s make it a great flight!”

T:
Smiles genuinely
“Wow, love that energy. She’s exactly what the team needs.”

EmpT:
“She’s either caffeinated, fake, or delusional. Either way, she’s too happy for this room.”

👤 Crew 5:
“Hello everyone, good morning... my name is Yoon, call me Jessica.”

T:
“Got it. Yoon is Jessica. We love a flexible identity.”

EmpT:
“So we’re just renaming ourselves now? Cool. I’m Brad. Brad with zero emotional availability.”

More introductions follow. Names, nods, recycled excitement. One of them even throws in a nervous joke that dies on impact.

T tries to stay engaged, but even he’s starting to drift. His polite smile is now on autopilot. His pen stopped moving.

EmpT? He’s completely detached.
Mentally watching Netflix with subtitles,
in a language he doesn’t speak.

“What perfume did I wear today?” T wonders. “I remember spraying something... expensive.”

EmpT doesn’t look up.

“Whatever it was, it’s been smothered by the nail polish smell and that one girl’s entire Sephora collection.”

He shifts in the chair. Notices someone picking at their cuticles across the table—wonders briefly if souls can peel.

Then. The CSD clears her throat.

It’s not loud.
It’s not aggressive.
But it slices through the mental fog like a PA announcement at 3 AM in a dead-silent cabin.

T snaps back. Blinks. Sits straighter like he wasn’t just sniffing his own sleeve and questioning his identity.

EmpT sighs like someone whose daydream just got evicted.

“Alright, team,” the CSD says, with the practiced warmth of someone who’s said it a thousand times,
“Let’s begin.”

Both versions of me nod.

One politely.
The other… out of defeat.

“Alright, we’re operating the 777-300 today,” the CSD begins, voice smooth, rehearsed, borderline hypnotic.
“Standard configuration. Full load. It’s going to be a hectic flight... blah blah blah...”

T nods.
He knows this drill. Already visualising the service flow, anticipating the customer profile, and mentally strategising the galley workload.

EmpT?
Gone.
Standing at R1, door still disarmed, imagining what it would feel like to just... never open it. Ever. Just lean into the metal and dissolve.

“Fifty-three in business?” EmpT mutters. “Perfect. One for every reason I should’ve called in sick.”

“It’s a double-catered flight.”

T:
Makes a mental note. Remembers to ask for dry ice..

EmpT:

“Double-catered? Amazing. Dinner’s been on a longer journey than most of our passengers.”

“Dessert will be plated,” she adds.
“And please remember to brief passengers about the dine-anytime concept in JC.”

T:
Adds another bullet point in his head. Remembers to smile while explaining flexibility.

EmpT:

“Because nothing screams fine dining in the sky like begging someone to order their soup before final descent.”

“Please make sure you complete your safety and security checks 100%,” the CSD says, with the seriousness of someone who’s been let down before.

T nods.
Already thinking about which BCF we have. He’s ready.

EmpT:

“Ah yes, 100%… which is only 80% more than I currently have to give.”
“Sure. Let me just check if the megaphone still works by screaming.”

T:
Mentally rehearsing the demo drill. Clear steps. Confident voice. Professional.

EmpT:

“Can I demo how I emotionally detach instead?”

“Any questions?”

Silence.

T holds his breath.
EmpT sends a silent prayer to the god of briefings:

“Please… not today.”

A hand twitches.
Someone shifts in their seat.
T braces.
EmpT prepares for emotional evacuation.

But the hand stays down.

T exhales.
EmpT whispers:

“Miracles are real.”

The briefing should be over by now.
But it isn’t.
Because now we’ve entered the “nonsense phase.”
The part that exists purely to test patience and acting skills.

“Let’s make this a smooth and happy flight, team.”

T nods sincerely.
He believes in kindness. In effort. In showing up.

EmpT:

“Let’s make this flight... end.”

“Remember, we are not just crew — we are memory-makers!”

T:
That’s... poetic. A little dramatic. But okay. He’s on board.

EmpT:

“I just reheated a bread roll so hard it became a weapon. That’s the memory I made.”

“And if you see someone struggling, don’t wait. Step in. Help.”

T:
Agrees. Yes. Always support the team.

EmpT:

“Especially if they’re struggling to fake a smile. I’ll step in with a blanket and fake a call to Medlink.”

“At the end of the day, it’s about teamwork, guys.”

T:
Of course. Always.

EmpT:

“Ah yes, my favourite part of teamwork is carrying emotional baggage that isn’t mine.”

The words go on.
They float in the air like a motivational screensaver no one asked for.

Some nod.
Some blink.
One girl is trying to telepathically boil the coffee with her stare.

T is still holding on.

EmpT is mentally poking holes in the life vest.

And then... just when everyone thinks it’s over.

“One last thing...”

T sits up straight. Ready. Focused.

EmpT:

“Here we go. The encore nobody asked for.”

“Let’s all try to be extra positive today. You never know what someone’s going through.”

T:
Nods. That one actually lands. He believes that.

EmpT:

“I do know what someone’s going through. Me. I’m someone.”

“Let’s lift each other up.”

EmpT:

“If someone lifts me up today, it better be out of this uniform and into a taxi.”

“Let’s bring the energy from the heart, not just the handbook.”

T:
Smiles. That’s a nice line.

EmpT:

“My heart is on break, babe. You’ll get whatever’s left in the handbook.”

Finally, the CSD closes the briefing with a warm smile and the sacred words:

“Let’s have a good flight, team.”

T:
Sincerely hopes so.

EmpT:

“Define ‘good.’ Like, do I cry before or after final service?”

Everyone stands up at once.
Pens are dropped. Bags are grabbed. The polite mask is back on.
Crew shuffle out the room, shoulders rolled, spines stiffened, ready to pretend like they’re emotionally available.

T walks out with purpose.
EmpT floats just behind him, already whispering dramatic one-liners into the void.

And just like that — briefing ends.

Not with fireworks.
Not with unity.
But with the quiet mutual agreement that we all survived it.

Barely.