Coming home wasn’t supposed to feel like this.

I had imagined it a thousand times. Her face in the crowd. My bag in one hand, her in the other. A quiet moment in the chaos where nothing else existed — just us. Just the life we fought to hold together through letters and phone calls and months of silence.

And there she was.

Exactly where I knew she’d be. Waiting just beyond the gate, eyes scanning the arrivals until they locked on mine. I saw the breath leave her. I felt it in my chest — that invisible thread between us pulling tight.

I took one step toward her—

—and that was all I got.

My mother’s arms wrapped around me. Then my sister. My uncle. Someone shoved a bouquet in my hands. There were cameras. Flashing lights. Noise. So much goddamn noise. Everyone was crying and laughing and grabbing me like I belonged to them.

They hadn’t even noticed her.

She stood just behind the crowd. Still. Silent. Like she didn’t know if she was allowed to push through.

And I couldn’t get to her.

I tried — I swear to God, I tried. I kept turning, kept reaching for her with my eyes, with my whole damn soul, but every time I moved, someone else pulled me away. “Felix, come on!” “We’re doing dinner at the house!” “Just for a little while — she’ll understand!”

I let them take me.

I let them steal the moment I had been living for.

And she watched me go.

Her smile didn’t reach her eyes. Not the way it used to. She gave me the softest nod — the kind you give someone you’re trying not to hate. The kind that says, I get it, but also, it still hurt.

Three hours passed before I could get away.

Three hours of smiling for photos, answering questions I didn’t care about, eating food I couldn’t taste. All while the one person who mattered most was somewhere else, wondering why her husband chose everyone but her.

And now I’m standing outside her door.

Fist raised. Heart pounding. Terrified.