As the plane begins its slow descent, I find myself wondering, dangerously, what it would be like to keep talking. To have coffee somewhere bright and ordinary. To learn his name, his tells, the shape of his life outside this narrow slice of shared night.
The thought is warm. And terrifying. Because wanting is the first step toward needing, and I promised myself, on the floor of that apartment, shaking and broken, that I wouldn’t need anyone again. That I would build my life small and sturdy and self-contained enough that no one could knock it over.
I can’t afford this.
When the wheels hit the runway with a solid, grounding jolt, I feel both relief and loss curl together in my chest. This was a pause. A liminal space. A place between where I came from and where I’m going.
I gather my things as the cabin lights brighten, my movements slower now, reluctant. He watches me withoutcomment, that same quiet attentiveness, like he understands exactly why I’m pulling back.
At the door, as we stand and wait our turn to disembark, he leans just slightly closer—not touching, not crowding.
“If you ever find yourself wondering,” he says softly, “running doesn’t mean you’re weak.”
I meet his eyes, and for a moment, the world narrows to just us. Two people who met in the dark and told each other the truth because it felt safer than pretending.
“I know.”
