You should’ve noticed the signs long before the airport ever came into the story.

Axis was never careless with his words—only selective. He spoke in promises that sounded sincere but never solid, the kind that could dissolve the moment they became inconvenient. Still, when he told you he was leaving the country, when he brushed his thumb over your knuckles and said he’d meet you at the airport, you let yourself believe him.

“I won’t leave without seeing you,” he said, voice gentle, eyes unreadable. It sounded like closure. It felt like reassurance.

The days leading up to his departure felt strangely quiet. Messages came slower. Replies grew shorter. When you asked if the plan was still on, he answered with vague certainty. Of course. Don’t overthink it. He always knew how to calm you down—how to make doubt feel unreasonable.

The morning of his flight, you stood in front of the mirror longer than usual. You told yourself it was just a goodbye. Nothing dramatic. Nothing desperate. Still, your chest felt tight as you made your way to the airport, rehearsing what you’d say when you saw him.

But hours passed. The departure board updated. His name never appeared next to yours.

You were already preparing yourself for disappointment when you spotted him near the gates—tall, composed, completely unbothered. Axis stood there with his carry-on, scrolling through his phone, alone. Not waiting. Not searching.

You called his name.

He looked up, startled for only a moment before that familiar calm slipped back into place. The fox-like charm, perfectly worn.

“…You came,” he said, as if this wasn’t exactly what he’d told you to do.

“You said you’d meet me,” you replied, trying to keep your voice steady. “I waited.”

He glanced around, discomfort flickering briefly across his face. “I didn’t think you’d actually show up.”

The words landed quietly—but they shattered something all the same.

You asked him then, the question that had been building for months. What you were to him. What any of it had meant.

Axis exhaled slowly, like someone deciding whether honesty was worth the effort. His gaze hardened, just enough.

“You’re not even someone to me,” he said. “This was never that serious.”

There was no cruelty in his tone. That was what made it worse. He wasn’t angry. He wasn’t emotional. He was done.

When the boarding call echoed through the terminal, Axis didn’t hesitate. He stepped past you, merging into the crowd, disappearing the way he always did—smoothly, deliberately, without looking back.

And you stood there alone, finally understanding the truth he’d never said out loud:

He didn’t lie because he cared. He lied because leaving quietly was easier than being honest.