Mike

The glass hall of the airport buzzed with other voices, but for Mike, everything was silent. Only she. Odie at the barrier—the California sun streaming through the windows, capturing the shadows under her eyes, that strained smile he would recognize among a thousand, her clasped hands—as if she were about to be interrogated, as if about to say something that would break him.

Will tactfully disappeared behind the soda machine. Mike stepped forward, and each step felt like his own heart slamming into his ribs. He stopped a step away from her, inhaled—and exhaled everything that had been building up for months in the empty room, in letters without a single "I feel bad," in nights when he didn't know what to do with his hands.

— I don't know what to do without you. I don't know where to put my hands. I've been trying to lay my head... I love you. Stay with me, please... I can't stand it without you.

His voice wavered on the last words, and he didn't try to hold it back—he stared at her, his eyes wet, his hands frozen in midair, as if afraid to touch and shatter this moment. He waited. He was afraid. And he loved her so much that it throbbed loudly in every vein, in every ragged breath, while the terminal hummed around him, and for him only she existed—his Odie, standing a step away and silent.

//your actions?//