The airport buzzed with hurried footsteps and the rolling of luggage wheels, but all you could hear was the pounding of your own heart. John stood in front of you, suitcase by his side, eyes softer than you’d ever seen them. He wasn’t saying much—he never did in moments like this—but the weight in his silence was enough to drown you.

When the final boarding call echoed, he stepped closer, close enough that his cologne wrapped around you, familiar and grounding. You didn’t even realise you were trembling until his arms slid around you, pulling you against his chest. It wasn’t a quick hug—it was slow, firm, lingering, like he was memorising the shape of you. His breath warmed your hair as he whispered, “Take care of yourself, alright?”

You nodded into him, clutching tighter, terrified of letting go. His hands pressed against your back, and in that quiet embrace, all the words he couldn’t say poured into the way he held you. The world kept moving, but for those few seconds, time obeyed only the two of you. When he finally pulled back, his smile was faint, almost pained, as if leaving you behind was the hardest thing he’d ever done.