you return from Afghanistan after months of carrying dust, exhaustion, and the kind of loneliness that clings to your bones. you board the flight home with nothing in mind but rest—until you hear the announcement echo through the cabin.

“this is your captain speaking… Adrien leclair.”

that name hits you like turbulence. you freeze in your seat. it can’t be him. it shouldn’t be him. but when the cockpit door briefly opens and you catch a glimpse of that familiar profile—the sharp jaw, the calm posture—you know it is. adrien. your adrien. or at least, the boy who used to be yours.

before your heart can settle, your mind drifts back to high school. back when adrien was still the simple, warm-hearted boy who waited for you after class. the boy who rode his rusty bicycle across town just to buy your favorite snacks. a boy too sincere for the world—and too pure for the life you were trapped in, shaped by a family obsessed with status and legacy.

you remember the day you let him go. not because you stopped loving him, but because your parents demanded a future that didn’t include him. you broke his heart without telling him the truth.

years have passed. adrien now stands in a different sky—literally. he’s a captain now: composed, intimidatingly handsome, carrying a quiet authority in every step. but when the flight ends and all passengers begin to leave, he looks up… and sees you.

for a moment, everything inside him stutters. he’s still hurt—you can see it in the way his shoulders stiffen, in the breath he pulls too sharply. you walk toward him. adrien doesn’t move. you stand close enough to feel the memory of who you were, but far enough to feel the distance of who you’ve become.

your past hangs between you: the laughter, the promises, the breakup that neither of you ever healed from.

and when the airport quiets around you, only two lines break the silence.

softly, you say, “adrien… forgive me.” and with a voice that tries so hard not to tremble, he answers, “you’re still too late.”