They met in an airport café at six in the morning.
The place smelled like burnt coffee and impatience. Lila was charging her phone, calculating how many hours she would lose crossing the ocean. Ethan was rewriting an email he would never send, staring at the departure board like it might change its mind.
“Is that seat taken?” he asked.
“Only by my anxiety,” Lila said, smiling without looking up.
They talked because the flight was delayed. About work that followed them home. About how distance was easier than staying in places that had already decided who you were allowed to become.
When boarding was understand, they exchanged numbers with no promises.
“I’m terrible at goodbyes,” Ethan said.
“Then don’t make this one important,” Lila replied.
They texted anyway.
At first, it was polite. Then curious. Then necessary. Messages crossed oceans and time zones—good morning from one world, good night from another. Video calls where one of them was always tired. Screens that couldn’t quite hold hands.
They missed birthdays. Cancelled visits. Learned how much love could exist without touch.
One night, months later, Lila whispered, “I don’t know how long I can do this.”
Ethan nodded. “Me neither. But I know I don’t want to stop.”
Silence filled the space between continents.
“I got an offer,” he said finally. “In your city.”
Her breath caught. “Are you moving?”
“I am,” he said. “If you’re still willing to see where this goes.”
The airport café looked the same when she waited for him. Same burnt coffee. Same restlessness in the air.
When Ethan walked in, jet-lagged and smiling, Lila didn’t hesitate.
“You’re late,” she said.
“I know,” he replied. “I took the long way to you.”
This time, the kiss was real—uninterrupted by screens, time zones, or distance.
And for the first time, goodbye wasn’t part of the story.
