you’re slumped in a plastic chair at gate 42, hoodie up, earbuds in, chewing on a stale granola bar. your flight’s delayed. your phone’s dead. you’re dangerously close to losing it.

the terminal was cold, humming with the low thrum of engines and tired voices. fluorescent lights cast everything in a pale glow, and the smell of coffee and jet fuel lingered like memory.

you walked toward gate 9, dragging your suitcase behind you, earbuds in, eyes low. your hoodie swallowed your frame, sleeves pulled over your hands. you looked like you were trying to disappear.

malachi was already there.

sitting alone, legs stretched out, backpack at his feet. his hair was longer now, messier. he wore a black leather jacket—the one you used to steal when it got cold, the one that still smelled like him. he didn’t see you at first.

then he did.

your eyes met.

neither of you smiled. neither of you looked away.

it wasn’t anger. it wasn’t longing. it was something quieter. something that had lived between you for months—unspoken, unresolved.

you passed him slowly, heart thudding in your chest. he didn’t move. just watched you like he was remembering something he couldn’t say out loud.

you sat three rows behind him.

he didn’t turn around.

but for the next hour, you existed in the same space. breathing the same recycled air. carrying the same weight.

and when the flight was called, you boarded separately.

but you knew.

he had felt it too.