Chapter 10: The Airport Departure
The silence in the car was a living thing. It sat between them on the leather seat, thick and pulsing with everything unsaid from her bedroom. Rohan drove, his eyes fixed on the rain-smeared highway leading to the international terminal.The rhythmic swipe of the wipers was the only sound.
Anjali stared out her window, watching the blurred streetlights streak past. She wore a simple travel outfit—cream-colored linen pants, a soft gray cashmere sweater—but she looked like she was headed to a shoot, not a flight.Her makeup was perfect, her posture poised.A fortress.
“Did you remember the adapter?” Rohan asked, just to break the spell.
“In the black pouch.”
“The doctor’s notes for the medical kit?”
“Yes.”
Silence again. He tightened his grip on the steering wheel. The memory of his hands on her bare shoulders, the shudder of her breath, played on a loop in his mind. It collided with the other memory, the ugly one: his father’s shrunken body in the hospital bed, the ventilator’hiss. A sickening cocktail of guilt and desire churned in his gut.They pulled up to the departure curb. The chaos of the airport was a jarring contrast: trolleys rattling, families hugging, a PA system buzzing with static.He put the car in park and got out to get her suitcase from the trunk. The weight of it surprised him.She stood on the sidewalk, adjusting her handbag strap. The automatic doors slid open and shut behind her, swallowing and disgorging people in a steady stream.“Well,” she said, forcing a smile. “Two weeks.”
“Try to enjoy it.At least the sun.” His voice sounded foreign to him, too bright.
She nodded, her eyes searching his face. Then, with a sudden, desperate motion, she stepped forward and wrapped her arms around him.It wasn’t a casual goodbye hug. It was full-bodied, her face buried in the space between his neck and shoulder, her fingers clutching the back of his jacket. He froze for a second before his arms went around her, holding her tight against him. He could feel every contour, the softness of the cashmere, the firm line of her spine. She fit against him with a terrifying rightness.Her lips were close to his ear. Her whisper was a warm, damp secret against his skin. “I’ll miss you.”
The words were simple, but the way she said them, the pressure of her body, made them a confession. His hands spread across her back, pulling her even closer. For a few heartbeats, the airport melted away.There was only her, the scent of her hair, and the devastating sense of home.
Then she pulled back, her eyes glittering. She swiped a thumb under her eye, catching a smudge of mascara.“Okay,” she breathed, more to herself than to him. She took the handle of her suitcase from his slack grip.“Check on him. Every day.”
“I will.”
“And eat something that isn’t instant noodles.”
“Only if you eat something that isn’t kale.”
A real, fragile smile touched her lips. She turned, the wheels of her suitcase clicking over the joins in the pavement, and walked toward the sliding glass doors. He watched her go, that familiar, hypnotic sway in her walk that even simple linen pants couldn’t hide. She didn’t look back. The doors parted for her, and she was absorbed into the bright, bustling interior.He stood there until a honk from a waiting taxi jerked him back. He got into the driver’s seat, the car still holding the ghost of her perfume. The hollow ache was immediate, a physical vacancy. He sat for a long minute, engine idling, watching more people say goodbye.His phone buzzed in the cupholder.A text from her.
Check the left pocket of my jacket.I left it on the back seat.He craned his neck. There it was, a crumpled heap of soft black wool. He reached back, fumbling for it.His fingers found the pocket, and inside, a small, stiff square of paper.
He pulled it out. It was the Polaroid from the scooter ride, the one he’d taken.Their laughter was frozen in the blur.But this wasn’t the one from her nightstand. This was a duplicate. And on this one, she had written something in her elegant script along the white border at the bottom.Two words.Don’t forget.He stared at it. He remembered the feel of her behind him on the bike, her arms around his waist, her laugh in his ear.The sun, the freedom, a version of them that felt possible.
He brought the photo to his lips, a reflexive, intimate gesture. The chemical scent of the instant film mixed with the faint trace of her perfume on the wool. Outside, the world of honking cars and shouted goodbyes continued, loud and impersonal. Inside the car, there was only this silent, stolen relic of a smile, pressed against his mouth.The hollow ache didn’t leave. It just changed shape, becoming something heavier, more specific, and infinitely more dangerous.