Fly away

The soft hum of the airport filled the space between them, a quiet symphony of departures and arrivals. Hands clasped tightly, neither wanted to let go, as if the strength of their grip could hold time still. Outside the towering glass windows, planes climbed into the sky, their distant rumble echoing through the terminal. “Don't worry, you have everything?” My voice was soft, trembling just enough to betray the emotions behind it. “I do,” came the reply, steady and warm. “We made sure of that.” The night before had been spent in preparation—packing bags with care, folding familiar comforts into small spaces, and gifts for the family. It was a quiet ritual of love, the kind that spoke louder than any words. “I’m proud of you,” my words came slowly, heavy with meaning. “He needs you, and you’re doing what’s right.” A hand reached up to brush against a cheek, the touch gentle and full of reassurance. “I’ll miss you.” The speakers crackled with the call for the flight, and the world seemed to pause. The moment felt impossibly fragile, as if it could shatter under the weight of what wasn’t being said, yet clearly conveyed with their glances. “I’ll miss you more,” came the reply, a weak attempt at a smile accompanying it. A soft laugh answered, but the eyes lingered, as though trying to memorise every detail before the inevitable separation. “It won’t be forever.” Steps away from the gate, she turned back one last time, a fleeting wave and a smile that carried so much more. Watching until she disappeared, I stood motionless, arms aching with emptiness, heart heavy but resolute. Letting go was an act of love, perhaps the most difficult kind. Later, the house felt unnervingly still. The shoes left at the entrance, and the faint scent of perfume lingering in the pillow, brought some tear to my eyes. Yet even in the quiet, her presence remained, woven into the fabric of home. Our home.