Far more devastating than any speech.
I step closer.
Philip inhales sharply.
“I didn’t know if I was making this bigger than it was,” he says, voice lower now. “I didn’t know if I was reading into messages because I wanted to.”
“You weren’t.”
He searches my face.
As if he still cannot quite trust the answer.
So I give him more.
“I drove back here every month because it was the only place I could miss you properly.”
Philip’s eyes close again, and this time the exhale that leaves him is almost shaky.
“Jeez,” he whispers.
“Yeah.”
For one second neither of us moves.
He is standing inches away.
Our photo behind him.
Heath rustling in the cage.
Sea air moving faintly through the open window.
All the waiting of the last four months packed into the tiny space between us.
Philip opens his eyes.
“I missed you,” he says.
I lift my hand to the side of his neck.
His pulse is hammering.
“I missed you too,” I say quietly.
Something in his face gives way.
Not dramatically.
Just enough that all the held-together edges loosen at once.
He makes a small, uneven sound and then he is moving.
One hand fisting in the front of my damp running shirt, the other catching at my shoulder as he leans into me like the months between us has suddenly become physically unbearable.
I kiss him.
Harder than I intended.
