And I sit there beside her. Close enough to touch, to breathe her in, but she feels miles away.
Still, it’s the first breath I’ve taken in five days that doesn’t hurt.
Because she’s here. And for now? That’s enough to keep my heart beating.
I wake as the wheels hit the runway.
At some point mid-flight, the exhaustion finally dragged me under. I remember leaning back, watching her profile. The curve of her cheek, the way her lashes brush her skin when she blinks. I force myself not to touch her, not to reach across inches that suddenly feel like miles.
Then my eyes grew heavy. She was beside me, I could breathe, and for the first time in five nights, I slept.
Six hours with her body inches from mine, and every minute felt like mercy.
The plane taxis. She stares out the window, headphones still on, walls still up, like she’s carved herself out of reach. The captain calls release on seatbelts and the cabin stirs, bags shifting, teammates murmuring, the world waking back up around us.
I unclip my belt, stand, and slide open the overhead. Her bags are the first I pull down, muscle memory now. I set them gently in the seat I’d held like a vigil all flight. She murmurs a quiet “Thank you,” barely audible, and tucks her laptop away.
Then she stands, steps into the aisle, and turns to leave.
It’s now or never.
Stop being a coward.
My hand slips into my pocket, fingers closing around the fold of paper I’ve carried like a lifeline these last few days. I unfold it, then fold it smaller and then I hold it out to her.
“I know you don’t want to talk to me,” I say, voice low, rough. “And maybe I don’t deserve it. But I’d… I’d be grateful if you read this.”
She looks at me. Really looks. Those eyes I’ve memorized and missed like oxygen.
For a second, nothing exists but the soft hum of the cabin and my heart beating like it’s trying to earn its way back to her.
Then she reaches out and takes the paper from my hand.
My heart drops, like gravity just doubled. Every ounce of hope I have sinks to my feet, terrified and alive all at once.
She nods once, barely there, then turns away with the letter held tight in her fingers.
And all I can do is stand there, hoping she’ll read the words I bled into that page and someday, God, someday,choose me again.
Chapter 36
The hotel room door clicks shut behind us, and June goes straight into get-shit-done mode. Clothes hung, chargers plugged in, toiletries lined up on the bathroom counter.
Me?
I drop my bags at the foot of the bed and collapse on top of the comforter face-first. Shoes still on, hair tangled from travel, and my heart? Bruised and tender in places I didn’t know existed.
I curl into myself and watch June move around, grateful beyond measure that she doesn’t ask a single question. I don’t think I could survive one.
I’m splintered. Torn right down the middle.
Half of me feels betrayed. Lied to. Stupid for handing my heart over.
The other half aches for him so deeply I can barely breathe. Sitting next to him today, close enough to feel his warmth, yetfar enough to drown in the distance, was torture. I spent most of the flight turned sideways, watching him sleep. His lashes on his cheek, that stupidly perfect jawline, the soft part in his bottom lip. The curve of his nose I traced with my fingers days ago.
He slept in peace. I sat there in ruin.
Memories of his hands on me, the way our bodies fit like puzzle pieces meant to click, burned through every mile of sky between Great Lakes and Portland.
