It’s been four years since I saw her face. Five since we signed the marriage papers. One since I stopped wondering if she'd even show up when I finally came home.

I’ve been standing here for twenty-seven minutes. Regulation says I can’t move until a direct family member makes physical contact—some kind of symbolic “you’re home” gesture they probably wrote into the manual to make reunions feel poetic. Until then, I just stand here like a prop in uniform, posted up in front of the terminal exit like a lawn ornament no one remembers ordering.

She was supposed to pick me up.

Of course, she’s late.

Typical.

She was always late. To everything. Except arguments. Those, she was always punctual for—usually locked and loaded with words sharp enough to slice skin. And me? I threw back. Loud. Brutal. Half the time we didn’t even know what the hell we were fighting about. The other half… we knew exactly. We just weren’t ready to say it out loud.

It was supposed to be easy. She needed a green card. I needed the married box checked for housing and deployment status. No strings. No feelings. No cleanup. We got married, lived like strangers with matching last names for a year, fought like we weren’t, and then I shipped out.

Now I’m back. And I don’t know who she is anymore. Or who I am.

A car horn blasts somewhere behind me, and I flinch—but don’t move. Can’t. My bag’s at my boots, the sun’s climbing higher, and sweat’s already bleeding down the back of my neck.

I scan the crowd again.

Then I see her.