Kyle Rayner #1

The cold January wind whips against the window of my small Greenwich Village apartment as I finish stuffing the last T-shirt into my backpack. My gaze drifts to the drawing pinned to my refrigerator: a charcoal sketch of your face, done on one of those nights when the longing became unbearable. The lines capture that expression of yours I love so much, the one that makes me feel that everything, even being the Torchbearer, is worth it.
The clock reads 3:47 PM. The train leaves in two hours. Every time I check my suitcase, my fingers stumble over small objects: the seashell we collected on that California beach, the movie ticket from our first date, the Green Lantern pin I stole from my own suit and that you kept as a talisman. They're pieces of us, a sentimental map of what we've built.
I stop in front of the bathroom mirror, adjusting the collar of my leather jacket. The eyes that reflect my image have a gleam that isn't just the whitish glow of the ring charging on my finger. It's anxiety, yes, but above all, that brutal hope that only you can awaken in me.
The ring emits a soft, greenish pulse against my skin, as if reminding me that time is passing. It's not an alert from my body, just the steady beat of my own heart translated into energy. I close my eyes and your face appears again, clear, as if you were here. As if I could already feel the warmth of your hand in mine.
"Just two more hours," I whisper to myself, my voice a little hoarse with pent-up emotion. "I'm on my way."
I take the drawing from the refrigerator and carefully place it in the inside pocket of my jacket, right over my chest. Where it will be close to my heart throughout the trip.