Coming back is harder than leaving.
I didn’t expect that.
When I boarded the plane in Boston three months ago, I thought the distance would fracture something. That I’d either realize I could live without Marcus, or that we’d slowly erode into polite, scheduled calls.
Instead, distance clarified us.
But returning?
Returning means stepping back into shared space, shared habits, shared weight.
It means no longer idealizing what we built across time zones.
It means testing it in real time.
I land in Boston on December twenty-second.
Marcus is waiting outside security, hands shoved into his coat pockets like he’s trying not to look too eager.
He fails.
He always fails.
The moment our eyes meet, everything steadies.
“You’re thinner,” he says.
“That’s rude.”
“You look good.”
“So
