Chapter Four | Instinct
I always felt the distance. It lingered in every silence, thick and unspoken. And because I overthink—because that’s what I do—I couldn't help but wonder if his quiet was just... quiet. Or if it meant something more. Something heavier.
Maybe I got too caught up. Maybe I overstepped. Maybe I cared too much, too fast, and now he’s recoiling from the weight of it.
I ran through every possibility like a checklist I never asked for. Maybe he doesn’t want me to be this... into him. Maybe he needs space. Maybe I’m too much. Or maybe—just maybe—I’m imagining all of this. Again.
But then there were those long, quiet stretches. Days without a word. Weeks where I’d stare at my phone until the screen went black and stared right back. His silence always arrived like a storm I couldn’t prepare for—sudden and impossible to ignore. It was never new. It was what he had done. Without explanation. Left. Leaving me in silence. Distance grew and then, gone.
I hated that I kept interpreting the quiet. Hated that my mind could convince me of every worst-case scenario. Still, the thought was always there:
He’s pulling away.
He’s done.
He’s not saying it, but he’s saying it.
And then—just like that—
"Come get me."
Three words. That was all.
I froze. My breath hitched. My hands suddenly felt too heavy for my own arms.
It was him. It was really him. And the voice—his voice—was exactly the one I’d waited to hear for what felt like forever. And now that it was here, now that it was real… I didn’t know what to do with it.
There was a pause. Long. Dense. Almost unbearable.
My brain screamed at me to say something, anything. But all I could hear was the echo of every time he’d disappeared. Every moment I'd wondered if he’d ever come back. Every time I told myself, no, he wouldn’t. Not again.
Because sometimes it felt like he came back just to be cruel. To pull me in only to prove he could still let me go.
Why now? Why like this? Is this real? Is this another game?
I remembered the first time he messaged after vanishing for months. I hadn’t trusted it then either. Thought maybe it was a joke. Or worse—someone pretending to be him. My fingers had shaken over my phone as I read his name lighting up my screen. I was at a concert. One of those moments that was supposed to be full and alive. But my world narrowed down to one text.
My rich copper hair swayed in the wind as I danced the night away. I had shoved my phone so far deep down into my purse until the moment I wanted to post a Story on Instagram. That's when I saw it.
I had always known he’d come back. Not how. Not when. But some deep, buried part of me just knew.
It’s him. It’s always been him.
We had this thing. This pull. A thread I couldn’t explain. Invisible but undeniable. Like gravity.
And that night, after his message, I fell right back in. I knew I would. Knew he was the only one who held pieces of me that no one else even knew were missing.
Some secrets I had given him on purpose. Quiet truths I’d planted like breadcrumbs. And now here he was, yanking the string like no time had passed.
We talked the entire night away. The moment where I needed to enjoy the idea of moving past his memory, was alive. Even louder than the concert itself. Then he was gone again after that text. The text that brought him back into my life. And now...
I didn’t know what to do. What if this was it?
Laughing through my anxiety, I texted back:
“Yeah right, dumbass.”
It was easier to make it casual. Like this didn’t matter. Like my heart wasn’t slamming against my ribs.
"From the airport," he said. "I’m here. Hope you took off work."
I hadn’t.
How could I have? How could I have prepared for something I’d stopped hoping for?
Panic. I scrambled to text my boss. Thank God she was soft-hearted and understood my moods.
I nearly forgot my phone on the counter in my rush. The same phone still holding his voice, like it hadn’t changed. Like time hadn’t passed.
"Shit—sorry, I forgot you were still on the line. I’m coming. Give me twenty minutes."
I could barely breathe.
And yet—wouldn’t it have been easier if he’d just shown up at one of my favorite spots? Places he knew I went to often. He knew my routines. Knew how I got distracted and bailed on them. He could have surprised me.
But no. He wanted me to come to him.
As I drove, I fidgeted. With my hair. My face. My sleeves. Wishing I had done something different. A better outfit. Better hair. A better version of myself.
The anxiety curled inside me like smoke.
Do I hug him?
Do I just wave?
Should I play it cool?
What if I jump into his arms and he pulls away?
That was my biggest fear—that I’d do too much, and he’d remind me again, we can’t do this.
I pulled up to the curb and sat in silence.
This wasn’t simple. Nothing about this had ever been simple.
Why is he here?
I had said goodbye. I meant it. I carved it into my chest like a warning sign.
I wasn’t supposed to see him again. Ever.
In the end, I parked. I couldn’t do this at the curb. This wasn’t a drive-thru reunion. I’d meet him inside. At baggage claim.
God, the symbolism, I thought. Of course it’s baggage claim.
I stood outside my car, staring at my reflection in the window. I texted him:
"I’m here. I’ll find you at baggage claim."
Trying to make it sound light. Like I wasn’t unraveling. Like this wasn’t the moment my entire body had braced for without admitting it.
I stared at myself again.
Do I look the same? Do I still look like someone he’d want? Like someone he remembers?
My stomach twisted. And somehow—somehow—I knew he’d be thinking the same thing.
I walked inside.
And then I stopped. Turned around.
This is fine. It’s fine. We’re just friends. That’s all this is. That’s all it’s ever been. That’s all it’s going to be.
Whatever happens now... is just instinct.
At baggage claim, the carousel churned on. People muttered, frustrated, arms crossed, eyes tired. I smiled quietly to myself—he would’ve hated this. The inefficiency. The waiting. The small inconvenience turned monumental.
That was my favorite version of him—mildly annoyed but too proud to say so. Quiet frustration tucked into sarcastic comments and side-eyes.
Then the air shifted.
I felt it before I saw him.
The string tugged.
And there he was. Same monochrome clothes. Still allergic to color. Still... him.
I froze.
Our eyes met. And just like that, the noise around me dulled. Everything blurred. I couldn’t run. Couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t think.
Don’t cry.
Don’t make it a thing.
But it was a thing.
And no matter how hard I tried to suppress it—I couldn’t.
Because this was instinct.
