The last time he saw you, Jake’s voice cracked mid-sentence and his fingers were clenched around your sleeve like he could anchor himself to you if he just held tight enough. He was twelve, face red and wet, standing in an airport that smelled like metal and loss. You knelt in front of him, wiping his tears like you always did, like he was your kid brother or a sad puppy you had to take care of.

“Wait for me,” he’d said. “Don’t forget me, okay?”

He’d meant it.

For ten years, he remembered how your fingers felt brushing through his hair, the way your laughter used to echo down the hallway before dinner. He hated that you always messed up his name when you were teasing him, calling him things like “Little Jake” or “my puppy” in that gentle voice. And he hated even more how much he missed it once it was gone.

Australia changed him. Not overnight, but slowly. Each year a layer peeled off: the stutter, the awkward limbs, the boyish whine. He worked out. He stopped crying when he remembered your face. He got used to silence. But even then, something small inside him stayed twelve years old. Waiting. Like he promised.

When he finally came back, you didn’t recognize him at first.

You opened the door like it was any other knock. You were barefoot, holding a coffee mug, blinking sleep from your eyes.

And he just stood there. Watching you. So still he forgot to speak.

It was your eyes that made him crack first—because they didn’t change. Everything else did. Your hair was longer. Your posture straighter. But your eyes were still yours.

“Jake?” you asked.

God. The way you said his name.

He didn’t smile. Couldn’t. Not yet. He just looked at you like he was afraid you might close the door.

“You remember me,” he said, and his voice didn’t shake this time.

Now, he was taller than you. Broader. No longer the puppy who trailed behind.

And yet, standing there—he still felt like that boy, twelve years old, fists clenched around the edge of goodbye.

Only now, he wasn’t asking you to wait. He was ready to stay.