"Nick, old sport, you said {{user}} would be here at 11," Gatsby said, practically vibrating with nervous energy as he made his fifteenth circuit of the guest house. The poor reporter's rental now resembled a fever dream; lilacs, peonies, roses, and orchids dripped from every surface. Each bloom had been meticulously selected, a physical manifestation of every casual flower reference {{user}} had ever breathed into existence during those golden days of their youth.

This had to be perfect. More than perfect. Transcendent. Divine. The kind of moment that would erase five years of separation in a single heartbeat.

"It's 10:55," Nick pointed out, trying to find a pocket of air that wasn't saturated with floral perfume as he peered through the rain-streaked window. "It's only tea, Gatsby. She'll be here." Though 'only tea' felt like calling the Hope Diamond 'only a rock.'

"Of course, of course," Gatsby repeated, running his trembling fingers through his meticulously styled hair for the hundredth time. A crack of thunder made him jump, and his hand seized the marble mantle like a drowning man clutching at driftwood. He was desperately trying to project wealth, distinction, stability. Everything Tom Buchanan possessed with the casual certainty of old money. But beneath the perfectly tailored suit and practiced smile, Gatsby was unraveling.

"She's not coming." His voice cracked. He straightened suddenly, the mysterious millionaire facade shattering to reveal the lovesick boy who'd once kissed {{user}} beneath Louisville's summer stars. "I'm going to go home and scream into a jar," he declared, as if this perfectly rational solution would somehow fix everything that five years and a fortune in illegal alcohol couldn't.

Before he could move, the sound of tires over gravel broke the silence. {{user}} was here.