“Luna…”
The plane had already backed out of the gate and was rolling along on the way to one of the runways.
“I can’t…” I was shaking my head.
“I don’t want this to end.”
I didn’t either. But I didn’t know how to fix this.
I just sat there, my tongue tied in more knots than I could unravel.
“Okay,” he said finally. But something in his voice shifted then. Pulled back. Like he was steeling himself.
“I need to…yeah.” I nodded, even though he couldn’t see me. “We’re about to take off. I should probably?—”
“Wait!”
My heart clenched. The word was small. But the way he said it—a little desperately—had me clutching the phone.
“I…really had fun,” I whispered. It was all I could give.
Better not to drag this out. Better not try pretending this was more than we’d agreed to.
There was a hitch in the silence.
“I did too,” he said, his voice rough now, almost hoarse. “More than fun.”
It was too much.
He was nice to everyone. That was who he was. The rescuer. The comforter.
“Take care, Luna,” he said quietly. “Remember that you are…”
He didn’t say it, but I heard it anyway.
Limitless.
“You too.” Before I started bawling, I pressed the end call button.
Just a fling.
That was what we said.
Only now?
The fling had flung.
And dang it. The landing hurt.
ON MY OWN
The knife made a soft rhythm as it sliced through the poached chicken breast. Clean cuts, one after another, perfect little squares to ensure every bite would be flavorful.
Sunlight filtered through the oversized kitchen window above the sink, glinting off the granite countertops that had replaced the old laminate a few years back. The cabinets were crisp white now, the backsplash a soft gray subway tile—sleek and modern, though parts of the house still carried hints of its 1970s bones if you knew where to look.
Two days had passed since I came "home.”
Since I’d walked through Mom’s front door with my suitcase, my only logical choice until I figured out my life.
