You can’t stop fidgeting with the sleeves of your sweater, twisting the fabric between your fingers as the car hums down the highway. His mom is talking softly in the front seat, her voice warm and familiar, while his dad keeps a steady hand on the wheel. You’re in the back, staring out the window, heart racing like you’re seventeen again.

Three years. Three whole years since that summer night when you stood in your driveway, arms wrapped around him like you could hold time still. You’d kissed him like it was the last time and promised him it wouldn’t be. He had tears in his eyes when he said goodbye, his duffel bag slung over one shoulder, that old hoodie you used to steal still smelling faintly like your perfume. You told him to go, even though your chest was cracking in two, because you loved him more than enough to let him chase his dream.

You’ve been waiting ever since.

It’s funny how waiting can become part of your routine. Like brushing your teeth or tying your shoes. You called every night. Sometimes the conversations were short—just a sleepy “I love you” before he passed out from training. Other times, they lasted hours, both of you clinging to the sound of each other’s voice like it was oxygen. You never missed a birthday. He never missed an “I miss you.” You never dated anyone else. Neither did he.

You remember people talking—teachers, friends, even strangers. “Long-distance never lasts.” “He’s gonna meet someone new.” “She’ll move on eventually.”

But they didn’t know him. They didn’t know you.

His name is Joshua. And since you were fifteen, he’s been yours. The tall, broad-shouldered boy who used to lean against his locker with that cocky grin that made the whole hallway turn. The one who passed you a note in junior year asking if you wanted to skip class and get milkshakes. The “bad boy” everyone warned you about—the same one who nervously asked your dad for permission to take you to prom.

The same one who cried on your porch the night before he left.

You smile now, soft and slow, because the airport is only a few minutes away. You’d imagined this moment a thousand times, but somehow it feels more surreal now that it’s real. Your heart is thudding so loudly you’re sure his mom can hear it.

Your phone buzzes in your lap. Josh: Plane just landed. Can’t believe I’m about to see you. You type back quickly, hands trembling. You: I’ve been waiting to kiss you for three years.

You can still remember the little things. His fingers laced through yours when you were nervous. How he’d kiss the top of your head when you were cold. The way he used to scribble your name in the corner of his notebooks. The dozens of times you caught him staring at you like you hung the moon.

God, you missed that look.

You look down at your reflection in the car window. You still have the same soft smile, the same thoughtful eyes he used to say he could read like a book. You wonder if he’ll think you look different. Older. Wiser. You wonder if he’ll recognize you in a crowd. But deep down, you know he will. He always has.

The car pulls into the parking garage, and your breath catches in your throat. You step out into the cool air, pulling your coat a little tighter around you. The terminal doors slide open and a wave of memories hits you like warm water. You were here three years ago, standing on the curb in the dark, trying not to cry. But today, it’s morning. The sun is out. And he’s coming home.

You spot the arrivals screen, your eyes scanning until you see it: Flight 417 – Arrived.

“Ready?” his mom Laura asks, smiling gently.

You nod, but your voice catches. “I’ve been ready for three years.”

And then you start walking.