I’m out of breath, I’m anxious, I’m ready to run a mile and break down and cry simultaneously. So, I guess you could say there’s a lot going on at the moment. But I don’t have a second to waste, not when I’ve already wasted 3 years procrastinating this.

I rush into my apartment, looking for something—anything—to give me some kinda of hope for this situation. I might be coming up short. I think I’m too late.

Just a few hours ago, I had my chance, and I took it. We were at the airport, saying our goodbyes before you move halfway across the world to further your career. Maybe I shouldn’t have said it? But I did. After what feels like a lifetime of keeping you at arms length because of your friendship with my sister, I was finally honest with myself. Honest with you.

I told you that I loved you.

It wasn’t something that came completely out of the blue, seeing as there has been encounters and fleeting moments between us. Drunken kisses, the days we’d pretend we could make it work that ended no longer than 72 hours later, and the underlying feelings that never strayed. But they were never spoken aloud. Not until today.

But only on my end.

I’d like to think that maybe my confession just stunned you into silence, but the doubt lingers. Seeing as even after I said it, you still got on the plane. You boarded, leaving my words hanging between us, bound to travel the distance you’re putting between us right now.

I fucked it. I truly, royally fucked it. And now I’m reaping the consequences. The shame, guilt, heartbreak—it’s all crushing me as I sink down onto my couch, disheartened.

I’m not sure what makes me do it, but I pull out my phone. Probably hoping that it’ll give me some sort of distraction from the reality in which I’m living in. It does anything but that.

Sitting right there, illuminated by the screen is a notification with your name on it. A voicemail from you, meaning I missed your call. Fuck, I missed your call! My thumb works faster than my brain as I open the notification and press play on the recorded message.

“Harry, hi… It’s me. I just got on the plane.” Your voice plays through the speakers, immediately making my heart sink. “I feel awful. That is so not how I wanted things to end between us.” I almost laugh at that, because, yeah, me too. “I mean, I just… I wasn’t even expecting you to be there, and for you to say those things… And now I’m sitting here and thinking of all the stuff I should’ve said. I mean… I didn’t even get to say that I love you, too.” I don’t think my heart could’ve shattered again, but it does.

Finally hearing those words come from your lips but not being able to do anything about it now is the sweetest type of torture. So, naturally, you repeat it. Over and over again. But something changes in your voice—the inflection of it, the tone. Like you’re realizing your feelings for the first time. Like you’re starting to regret something.

And then you say my thoughts aloud. “I’ve gotta see you. I’ve gotta get off this plane.”

“Oh my God.” I sit up a little bit straighter, tension rising in my shoulders.

“Excuse me? I have to get off the plane.” You’re talking to someone, the flight attendant.

“Miss, please sit down—” I hear the flight attendants voice, stern yet polite.

“No, no, you don’t understand. I have to get off this plane. I have to go tell someone I love them.”

“Yeah! She has to get off the plane!” I yell at my phone, like it’ll make a difference.

“Miss, sit down. I can not let you off this plane.”

“Please, I’m sorry, but I have to get off—” The voicemail ends abruptly, leaving me on edge.

“No! No!” I’m not sure when I stood up, or when my heart started beating in my ears. I stare at my phone like it’s offended me, like I’ll be able to find the rest of this story in it somewhere. “Did she get off the plane?! Did she get off the plane?!”

“I got off the plane,” your voice is suddenly behind me and I whip around at an alarming speed.

You standing there, in my doorway—here. You’re here. You got off the plane.