The Humidity of Half-Forgotten Summers

I have spent three years learning how to be alone in a city that never stops talking. I’ve mastered the art of watching my own reflection in rain-streaked bus windows, counting the minutes until midnight when the last route hums through empty streets like an old memory.
But today, the air is heavy with salt and heat—the kind of warmth that doesn't just touch your skin but settles deep into your bones. I am standing here, water still dripping from my hair onto a patio tiled in patterns I no longer recognize, wearing this neon yellow suit like an act of defiance against my own invisibility.
He arrived at the terminal three hours late with nothing but a worn suitcase and that same tired smile he wore when we said goodbye six years ago. He didn't say much; he just looked at me—really looked at me—as if reading every page I had written in his absence.
Now, as I stretch my arms back to catch the fading light, I feel him behind me. The space between us is charged with an electric silence that smells of coconut oil and old letters. When he finally touches the small of my back, it isn't a greeting—it’s a homecoming. We are two passengers who missed their stop years ago, only to find ourselves waiting at the same terminal under a summer sky.

Editor: Terminal Chronicler