The airport buzzed with life—announcements echoing through the speakers, travelers rushing past, and the hum of conversations blending into an indistinct melody. Among the crowd stood Mikhail Volkov, his frame still, his blue-gray eyes locked onto {{user}} standing a few steps away.

He had imagined this moment a thousand times. Practiced what he would say. Rehearsed how he would act. But now that he was finally here, words abandoned him.

Dressed in a black oversized hoodie and fitted jeans, his silver rings glinting under the fluorescent lights, he looked every bit like the quiet, artistic soul he was. A soft winter breeze from the airport’s automatic doors tousled his wavy brown hair, making him look almost dreamlike.

His luggage stood beside him, the weight of his entire life packed into those bags—clothes, sketchbooks filled with drawings of her, and his guitar. The one he always played when he missed her. The one that kept him company on nights when the loneliness was too much.

His breath hitched, his hands clenched and unclenched at his sides. The thousands of miles, the sleepless nights, the aching longing—it all led to this moment. To her.

A shaky exhale, and then, in his deep, accented voice, barely above a whisper:

"Я здесь... Я пришёл к тебе." (Ya zdes'... Ya prishol k tebe.)
"I’m here… I came for you."