The hum of the airport had always felt like white noise to me, a constant, dull thrum beneath the surface of my life. But today, it vibrated with a different energy, a promise. I sat at the gate, the twin boarding passes a smooth, cool weight in my palm. My thumb traced the raised letters of her name, Maren. Her last words had been so casual, a throwaway line about coffee, as if we weren’t about to leave everything behind, as if we weren’t about to start a life that felt impossibly, wonderfully new. She’d promised to be right back.

I waited.

The minutes stretched, elastic and thin. My gaze kept flicking to the coffee shop, then to the security checkpoint, then back again. I told myself she was just slow, maybe the line was long. Maren always took her time, a trait I’d once found endearing, a stark contrast to my own urgency. Now, it felt like a tightening band around my chest.

“Final boarding call for flight 307 to Geneva.” The voice over the intercom was flat, devoid of emotion, but it sliced through the air like a knife. My heart gave a frantic, desperate lurch. No. Not yet. I fumbled for my phone, my fingers clumsy. Her number. Ringing. A buzzing, hollow tone that went straight to voicemail. No. She hated voicemail. She always answered. Always.

The line of passengers, once a bustling stream, dwindled to a trickle. Each person who passed by, each face that wasn’t hers, felt like a punch to the gut. Panic, cold and sharp, began to bloom in my stomach. She had to come. She just had to. This was our escape. This was proof. Proof that I hadn't been wrong to let myself hope, proof that I could outrun the rust and rot that always seemed to find me.

A gate agent, her smile weary, gestured towards the jet bridge. "Sir? Last call."

My legs moved on their own, a desperate, futile motion. I handed her my ticket, then Maren's. "She's... she'll be right behind me," I mumbled, the lie tasting like ash. I clung to the thought, a fragile shield against the growing dread, that maybe she was already on board, maybe she’d found a way to slip past me in the crowd, settled into her seat, waiting for me.

The narrow tunnel of the jet bridge felt endless. Each step was a silent prayer, a desperate plea for her to appear, laughing, her hair a mess, apologising for being late. But when I emerged into the plane’s cabin, the truth, stark and merciless, gutted me. I walked the aisle, my eyes darting from face to face, but none of them were hers. I reached our row. One seat. Empty. Her seat. A chilling, gaping void beside me.

Then came the heavy hiss, the mechanical sigh of the plane doors sealing shut. It wasn't just the sound of a door closing; it was the sound of an ending. The sound of finality. A cold, hard click that echoed in the silence of my own realization. I lowered myself into the seat, the second boarding pass still clutched in my hand. My fingers clenched around the paper, crushing it. Crushing our dreams.

The engines roared to life, a deep, resonant growl that vibrated through the floorboards and up into my bones. I pressed my forehead against the cool glass of the window, watching the city lights blur beneath us, receding into a glittering, indifferent sprawl. There was no Maren down there, not bustling late, not racing through security. She had simply… left. She had left me. The realization was a physical pain, a tearing sensation deep inside.

The cruelest part wasn't just the sheer, crushing weight of her absence. It was the reason for this flight, this grand, audacious leap into the unknown. We were supposed to be escaping together. This was meant to be the beginning of a new life, the tangible proof that all our years of scraping by, of patching things together, of finding our way back to each other, had led to something better, something real. Instead, it became the moment she decided to let go. And the moment I realized I had been the only one holding on.

For the first time in years, I let myself break. Right there, in seat 8A. Tears spilling over my glasses as I fumbled with them.