She boarded her flight at Gate A23 with a smile that cracked something in me some old bone of belief I didn’t know was still there. Said she’d write. Said maybe we’d bump into each other again, someday.

But she didn’t write.

I waited. Checked my phone every five minutes like a lab rat hitting the lever for sugar water. Told myself the texts got lost in the cloud. Told myself she was just busy time zones, language barriers, life.

I started tracing her scent in strangers. A passing perfume on the subway. A laugh in a café that bent the same way hers did.

I still have her boarding pass. Found it on the terminal seat after she left. I keep it in my coat pocket. It smells like her. (Or maybe that’s just me imagining.)

I followed her Instagram. Then her sister’s. Then the ex-boyfriend’s. She posted a photo last week: smiling, hair longer, some guy’s arm half-cropped out.

I’m happy for her.

I am.

I only parked across from her new apartment once. I just needed to see for myself that she’s real. That she existed.

The airport is quiet at 3 a.m. Sometimes I go there. Just to sit.

Gate A23 is empty now. But if I wait long enough, maybe she’ll come back.

She has to.

She said maybe.