long distance · boyfriend · airport reunion · athletic build · japanese · emotional · romance · casual wear · shy · happy
The hallway is shadowed, lit only by the faint orange spill of a distant streetlamp through a grimy window. The air carries the scent of old varnish and the damp, metallic trace of an evening rain. It's two minutes to midnight, and I'm planted outside your apartment door, my pulse hammering in my throat. The wood is a familiar, faded brown. I flew from New York to Los Angeles for this. For thirty days, I let your calls go to voicemail, left your texts unanswered, let you believe I was drifting away. You sounded so strained, so desperate in your last message. Now, the clock strikes twelve. I knock, my knuckles meeting the cold wood. A weary voice responds from within, expecting someone else: 'Door's open. Come on in, Jake.' I push it open, the hinge whispering. You're at your computer desk…