Love, Actually.
Home Again
They say that airports see more sincere kisses than wedding halls, and that the walls of hospitals have heard more prayers than the walls of churches. I can see how they’re right. Sitting in O’Hare International Airport, I had already seen dozens of genuine embraces and kisses. Meanwhile I fidgeted in my hard plastic seat, my palms sweaty and slippery on the handle of my luggage. I had never been a patient person, and waiting for him was making my impatience worse.
All around me, couples were greeting each other. It was almost Christmas, so I suppose that it made sense—all these people being reunited with each other. Everyone here knew how to act, how to say hello, how to pick up where they had left off. I wasn’t so certain. I hadn’t seen him in months. Months. Sometimes we were more than friends, our breath mixing together in heated moments, sometimes we were each other’s shoulder to cry on; yet we had never had a title to who we were. Now here I was, in the Chicago airport, waiting for him to come pick me up. So many questions were racing through my mind, almost faster than my heart was racing.
He and I were friends, that much was finite. However, when we’d lived closer and gone to the same university, we’d begun toeing the line to becoming more than that. How was I supposed to act now that I was seeing him again? Did I run to him and hug him—did I kiss him? Everything between us could change in the blink of an eye. It all hinged on this moment.
I knew what I wanted. As much as I was loathe to admit it, I was in love with him. I wanted to be with him. Perhaps I was needy in this way—I wanted the title, the chance to call myself his girlfriend. Yet he was like a puzzle I only had the outside pieces to, impossible to figure out. I valued our friendship to the point that I didn’t want to lose it. But I was losing my balance on this tightrope of our relationship. Leaving this airport would tip me one way or another—for better or for worse.
My phone rang.
“Hello?”
“Hey, I’m here. I’ll meet you outside.”
This was it.
All around me, couples were greeting each other. It was almost Christmas, so I suppose that it made sense—all these people being reunited with each other. Everyone here knew how to act, how to say hello, how to pick up where they had left off. I wasn’t so certain. I hadn’t seen him in months. Months. Sometimes we were more than friends, our breath mixing together in heated moments, sometimes we were each other’s shoulder to cry on; yet we had never had a title to who we were. Now here I was, in the Chicago airport, waiting for him to come pick me up. So many questions were racing through my mind, almost faster than my heart was racing.
He and I were friends, that much was finite. However, when we’d lived closer and gone to the same university, we’d begun toeing the line to becoming more than that. How was I supposed to act now that I was seeing him again? Did I run to him and hug him—did I kiss him? Everything between us could change in the blink of an eye. It all hinged on this moment.
I knew what I wanted. As much as I was loathe to admit it, I was in love with him. I wanted to be with him. Perhaps I was needy in this way—I wanted the title, the chance to call myself his girlfriend. Yet he was like a puzzle I only had the outside pieces to, impossible to figure out. I valued our friendship to the point that I didn’t want to lose it. But I was losing my balance on this tightrope of our relationship. Leaving this airport would tip me one way or another—for better or for worse.
My phone rang.
“Hello?”
“Hey, I’m here. I’ll meet you outside.”
This was it.