As I walked through the airport, a feeling of nostalgia washed over me. I have never even lived here. But I've visited so many times that I know this airport almost as well as the one at home.
I walked past the cafe we sat in awaiting our flight home from my brother's wedding. Where he insisted to my friend from college that we randomly ran into, that he was my boyfriend. Emphatic. Only to be replaced with another opposite emphatic statement exactly one month later.
Juggling my bags, I missed last year's demonstration of local hospitality as everyone offered to help me with bags being as I was on crutches.
I walked past the baggage claim. Remembering the first time I flew in for the festival. When M picked me up. Before she bought a house. Before she was married. Before she moved away from here.
She and P arrive in ten short hours. It hasn't even been a year since I stayed at their place in Brooklyn, but I miss her. P, even. I've only known him briefly, but he already feels like a brother to me.
My excitement at seeing old friends pales only in comparison to the feeling I get when I think about his eyes. About his smile. About last night's kisses. About how walking past the cafe brought no feeling of sadness. Just distant memories.
I'm happy he ended things. I'm happy I took most of the summer off. I'm happy I've finally met someone that stays with me even when I'm a thousand miles from home. Even if it doesn't last. It helps me to put other things in perspective.
I never missed the last when I was away. When he was. That should have been telling.