Airports always made me feel small vast sprawling spaces filled with people on their way to somewhere else. On this particular evening, the terminal was bustling, a mix of excitement and exhaustion hanging in the air as travelers hurried to catch flights or lingered over last-minute goodbyes. I was somewhere in between, eager to get home but also caught up in the bittersweetness of leaving a place behind. My gate wasn’t far, so I wandered a bit, hoping to find a quiet corner to wait out the last hour before boarding. That’s when I saw him. He was sitting alone at one of the café tables, a cup of coffee in front of him and a book in his hands. He was striking in an understated way dark, tousled hair that looked like he’d run his fingers through it one too many times, and eyes that seemed to be deeply focused on the words in front of him. He wore a simple sweater and jeans, nothing out of the ordinary, but there was something about him that made him stand out in the sea of travelers. I found myself gravitating toward a seat with a view of him, pretending to be interested in my phone but really stealing glances every few seconds. There was a calmness about him, a quiet intensity that contrasted with the frenetic energy around us. He seemed completely absorbed in his book, turning pages slowly, as if savoring each one. I wondered what he was reading and if he would smile or frown at a particularly poignant passage. It didn’t take long for my mind to start weaving stories about him. Maybe he was a writer, escaping to some secluded retreat to finish his latest novel. Or perhaps he was visiting family, returning to a place that felt both comforting and constricting. I imagined what it would be like to walk up to him, ask him about his book, and exchange knowing smiles as we discussed our favorite authors. But as much as I indulged in these daydreams, I knew they were just that fantasies. The announcements echoed through the terminal, breaking my reverie. My flight was starting to board, and with a heavy sigh, I gathered my things. As I stood, I glanced over at him one last time, hoping he might look up, that our eyes might meet, and that I’d have the courage to say something. Anything. But he didn’t. He was still lost in his book, completely unaware of the girl who had been watching him from afar. My heart sank a little as I joined the line of passengers, my feet dragging as if they were reluctant to leave this moment behind. The boarding process felt slow, each step toward the plane bringing me further from the possibility of what might have been. I found my seat, buckled in, and stared out the window as the plane began to taxi. The lights of the terminal blurred in the distance, and I couldn’t help but think of him sitting there, sipping his coffee, turning the pages of his book, completely oblivious to the silent confession of affection that had passed between us. As the plane lifted into the sky, I felt a pang of regret. I would never know his name, never know the sound of his voice or the feel of his hand in mine. It was unrequited love in its purest form brief, intense, and ultimately, just a fleeting “what if.”
But even as the city lights faded beneath the clouds, I knew I would carry the memory of that evening with me, tucked away like a pressed flower between the pages of a book. A reminder that sometimes, love is not about grand gestures or perfect endings, but about the quiet moments that never come to be.
A love that could have been, but never was.
