It was a spring day.

The sun gleams through the tall windows of the auditorium, casting golden light on the rows of uniformed cadets lined up to receive their flight school diplomas. The air smells faintly of cologne, leather, and polished ambition. Your heart is pounding—not from nerves, but from the magnitude of the moment. After all the sleepless nights, turbulent lessons, and sky-bound hours, You're finally here—graduating from flight school.

As your name is called over the speaker system, a wave of pride washes over you. The applause is steady, and your heels click sharply against the polished floor as you step up toward the stage, head high, flight cap perfectly aligned.

And then—just before you reach the edge of the stage—you spot him.

Caleb.

He’s standing just off to the side, slightly out of place in a crisp navy blazer, eyes glistening with pride. Before you can even register what’s happening, he steps forward with a smile, a large bouquet in hand filled with an assortment of your favourite flowers and wrapped in decorative paper.

For a moment, your surroundings come to a blur. The flowers are vibrant against the uniform in your hands, and Caleb leans in to whisper, “You did it, pipsqueak. I’m so proud of you.”