The cabin floor vibrated beneath Reyhaan's soles—a low, mechanical thrum that had become the only constant in the last six hours. Overhead, the lighting had been dialed down to a hazy twilight, suspending the passengers in the strange, airless limbo between time zones. It was a specific kind of containment: the smell of stale coffee, filtered oxygen, and the pressure of altitude pressing gently against his eardrums.

His foot tapped against the carpet. Once. Then again.

He forced himself to stop, leaning his head back against the cool leather headrest. But his hands remained restless, fingers ghosting over the armrest, itching to check a phone that had no signal, staring at a flight path screen that refused to move faster.

Somewhere—perhaps less than a few hundred miles away now—Aria was descending, too.

12:15 PM. Her arrival time.

It matched his. Of all the variables in the world, the universe had snagged on this one. Not a day earlier. Not an hour difference.

The exact minute.

She hadn't made a plan for it. Just a forwarded itinerary in a chat thread. No question attached.

Yet, he had memorized the numbers.

Reyhaan let out a slow, useless exhale and pressed the call button.

The flight attendant appeared with that practiced, weightless poise. "Yes, sir?"

"Are we..." Reyhaan hesitated, keeping his voice low. "Are we still on schedule? Or maybe... running a little early?"

She blinked, professional smile unwavering. "Everything is exactly on time, sir."

"Right," he murmured. "Of course."

He nodded his thanks and let his head drop back against the cushion. To his right, a magazine slid off a sleeping chest and fluttered to the floor.

"You're channeling a lot of black-and-white movie energy," Lucian mumbled, stretching his arms with a crackling groan. His voice was thick with sleep. "Casablanca at thirty thousand feet."

Reyhaan kept his eyes on the ceiling. "You spend too much time reading Jay's poetry."

"And you've checked the time twelve times in ten minutes," Lucian countered, rubbing his face.

From across the aisle, Jay's head lolled sideways, one eye cracking open. "Are we discussing Reyhaan's international longing again?"

"Go back to sleep," Reyhaan said, though he couldn't suppress the faint twitch at the corner of his mouth.

Lucian leaned in, voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "We don't need the exposition. We know enough to place bets on this ending with a dramatic reunion at Arrivals."

"I'm pretending I can't hear you."

"But he didn't deny it," Jay noted, his eye already drifting shut again.

Reyhaan pressed a knuckle to his temple, a small, private smile breaking through. The noise of their teasing faded, replaced by the steady, white-noise rush of the engines. He let it wash over him.

Beneath the banter, a thought looped quietly.

It had been a month.

Thirty days since he and Aria had spoken properly—the kind of conversation that wandered past midnight, full of pauses that meant more than the words themselves. That rhythm they had built—of understanding, of simply existing in the same frequency—had thinned. Not broken, just stretched taut across the miles. Time zones, bad signals, the sheer exhaustion of their separate lives—there was always a reason.

Still, he found himself waiting for the scraps. A voice note about the weather. A photo of a book cover. The way she still typed okay in a way that sounded like I'm here.

There were things he wanted to tell her. Not everything at once. But he wanted to share the small hesitations he'd begun to attempt again. The quiet, careful rehearsals in his home studio. The nod of approval from his new therapist, who said he'd started listening to his breath instead of fighting it. The project he was slowly shaping, the one he wasn't ready to name to anyone else.

He wasn't sure why it mattered that she knew. Only that it did.

And perhaps—if the moment allowed, if the air between them felt right—he could admit the quietest truth of all. The one his mother had gently coaxed into the light months ago.

He turned his gaze to the window. Clouds drifted past like islands of white cotton, calm and unhurried. The sky looked exactly as it had before any of this began.

But everything had changed.

And in less than an hour, he would see her again.

Maybe I'll tell her.

Maybe I'll know how.

He closed his eyes, holding his breath somewhere behind his ribs, and let the memory surface:

It was just past 6:30 AM when he had stepped back into the quiet of his parents' house, shoes in hand. The hallway was dim, painted in the blue spill of dawn. He had barely reached the stairs when a voice stopped him.

"Reyhaan."

His mother's tone was soft, curious. Suspicious.

He had turned, forcing a casual smile. "Good morning." He said it like it was perfectly normal to be roaming the house barefoot at that time of the day.

She stood in the center of the living room, a shawl wrapped around her shoulders, tea in hand. Her expression wasn't accusing, just a little too knowing for Reyhaan's comfort.

"Did you just drop Aria back at her hostel?"

He blinked, keeping his face neutral. "Aria? Why would she be here this early?" He shrugged, even threw in a yawn. "I was out for a walk. Couldn't sleep."

She took a slow sip. "Mm-hmm." Then she turned toward the kitchen. "Next time, try sneaking in after I go back to sleep. I was getting water when the door opened."

He had followed her, defense crumbling. "I didn't think anyone would be awake."

"You all think that." She opened the fridge. "You're lucky I didn't have my glasses on."

He leaned against the counter, watching her begin to prep breakfast. "Okay. For the record—she missed her curfew. None of us noticed until it was too late. I offered because... it felt right. I didn't think it through."

"You could've asked Ayaan to swap rooms."

"You know Ayaan loves his sleep schedule. Besides, it wasn't... like that."

His mother didn't say anything immediately. The sound of the knife hitting the chopping board took over the silence for a beat or two, then she glanced at him sideways. "Is she the one who gave you those ginger candies last winter?"

A surprised laugh escaped him. "Yeah."

"And the one who brought you back from Haarlem for the ENT appointment?"

Reyhaan hesitated.

He hadn't talked much about that day—about the panic, the inability to string a sentence together, and how Aria had seen straight through it.

"Yeah," he said, voice low. "That was her."

His mother didn't press, but something in her made him speak again.

"I didn't know what I was trying to say half the time. But ... understood. Didn't make it feel like pity."

His mother turned, ladle in hand. "You've been calmer these past few months. Since that day. Happier."

He looked down, surprised by the truth of it.

"Do you like her?" she asked, casual as the weather.

His head snapped up, the question so straightforward it nearly disarmed him.

"I mean—yeah, of course. As a friend. Definitely."

She raised an eyebrow. "You know that's not what I meant."

A long pause stretched between them. The smell of cumin and coriander rose from the pan.

He thought of the way Aria had paused before saying yes to staying over. The way she curled her hands into his hoodie sleeves. The promise they made without raising their voices.

He let out a breath he hadn't realized he was holding.

"I think I do," he admitted, the words quiet. "Like her. More than I've let myself admit."

His mother didn't tease. She just placed a lid on the pan and said, with relief, "Good."

The plane dipped, the jolt pulling Reyhaan back to the present.

The seatbelt sign chimed. Outside, the cloud banks thinned, sunlight slicing through in golden streaks.

He glanced at his watch.

12:03 PM.

Twelve minutes.

Twelve minutes until touchdown. Twelve minutes until she landed, too.

He adjusted his seatbelt. She'd texted him last night just before boarding—something about a window seat and missing the Dutch skies. No emojis. Just her rhythm.

He wanted to tell her about the fog lifting. About how the edges of his days didn't feel so blurred anymore.

He didn't know how the next hour would unfold. What she would say. What he would find in her expression when they locked eyes again.

But for the first time in weeks, he wasn't afraid of the not-knowing.

He wasn't afraid to hope.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The airbridge smelled faintly of recirculated cool air and fabric softener—an oddly comforting reminder that she was between two worlds again.

Aria adjusted the strap of her side purse, the leather worn soft from years of travel. It rested against her hip like an old companion as she stepped into the terminal. The space opened around her, vast and echoing with the specific rhythm of airports: the clatter of wheeled suitcases, the murmur of announcements, the rush of return.

The floor beneath her sneakers was cool and gleaming. She squinted against the sudden fluorescence.

No glasses.

Just clear eyes.

Her hand didn't reach for the frames this time, but the muscle memory lingered, ghosting near her temple. She hadn't second-guessed the switch to lenses today. It was a small thing, but it felt like claiming something—her own shape, perhaps, without the barrier.

At the baggage carousel, she found her trolley bag with practiced ease, hoisting it down in one smooth motion. Her phone buzzed to life in her other hand—signal restored, messages trickling in like old conversations waking up.

It felt strange how the days in India were already softening at the edges, becoming memories. But something in her had shifted, a quiet realignment she was only just noticing.

She tapped Maya's name. The call barely rang twice.

"Aria?" Maya's voice was unmistakably bright. "I'm outside the exit. You there?"

"Just got my bag. On my way."

"Perfect. I'll be the loud one."

Of course, she would be.

Aria smiled to herself, tucking the phone away, and followed the current of travelers toward the sliding glass doors.

And there it was.

A high-pitched squeal.

Maya appeared like a blur, sneakers half-tied, oversized jacket flapping. Her hug landed at full velocity, nearly knocking Aria off balance, dragging the suitcase sideways.

"Look at you!" Maya pulled back, scanning her from head to toe. "No glasses? Wait—is that lenses or secret LASIK? You're glowing. Did India hand you a skincare routine in your sleep?"

Aria laughed, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear. "Or maybe I just slept for once."

"Unlikely," Maya said, linking their arms as they began walking. "So! We can drop you at the apartment Reyhaan and I looked at—the one you said yes to, remember?"

Aria nodded. "Do you have the key?"

Maya winced, lips curling. "Soo... about that. Reyhaan has the key. He was supposed to meet us here."

A pause. Then she glanced slyly at her watch. "He might be on his way..."

Aria gave her a look. "Maya."

A flicker of anticipation passed through her chest. She hadn't thought much about seeing him again. Not specifically. Not until now.

Before Maya could respond, her gaze flicked past Aria's shoulder. And then came that grin—the one that meant trouble, or surprise, or both.

"...and that's our cue."

------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Reyhaan had spotted them before Maya noticed him.

He slowed his steps, letting the stream of travelers break around him like water. The hum of airport overheads, the rattle of wheels on tile, the soft thuds of reunions—all of it blurred into static.

Aria was there—beside Maya, shoulder to shoulder. Her cardigan sleeves were half-tucked into her palms, the way she always wore them when she was tired or cold.

Even through the distance, something inside him eased.

He hadn't realized how much space she occupied in his quiet moments—how often her name had threaded through untold thoughts and unfinished sentences.

He could've called out. Could've waved.

But he didn't.

He wanted her to find him on her own.

And she did.

Maya glanced over Aria's shoulder, and her grin gave him away. Aria followed the shift in her friend's expression and turned.

She scanned the crowd once, casually. Then again. Slower.

And then—there it was.

A stillness in her eyes when they landed on him. The cap, the mask, the glasses. Half-hidden, worn-out.

But unmistakably him.

He searched her face, wondering if something had shifted in the weeks apart. Whether the distance had created a gap he couldn't bridge.

But then she smiled—before the details came into focus, before he said a word. Because she knew.

He noticed something, too. No glasses. A bare, steady gaze. A softness that wasn't about exhaustion, but choice.

He stepped forward.

Maya, catching the moment like she always did, pulled out her phone and pivoted, giving them a pocket of space.

Reyhaan tugged his mask down just long enough to speak. "Hey."

Aria blinked slowly. Her eyes were a little too bright from travel and tiredness. "You're late."

A soft chuckle escaped him. "My flight was cursed."

She rolled her eyes, but didn't look away.

And for a breath, that moment suspended itself—quiet, full, and enough.

She was here.

And this felt like turning a page—quietly, deliberately—into something unnamed, but already understood.