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The Last Goodbye

I stood there, The Scientist by Coldplay echoing softly in my ears as I drew in another puff, the smoke dissolving into the rain-soaked air that wrapped itself around the airport gates. It was twenty minutes past seven, and my flight was scheduled to board at 7

. The drizzle tapped steadily against the glass panes, blurring the lights outside into streaks of gold and silver.

Each drop seemed like a reminder of how fleeting moments are, how they are there for a moment and disappear the very next, leaving no trace behind. With that last inhale, the nicotine seeped in, heavy and grounding, and with it came the sudden weight of nostalgia, a truck colliding with memory. I wasn’t just smoking, I was stalling, trying to stretch the minutes before departure into something longer, something eternal.

I knew I wasn’t going to come back here for quite some time. I wouldn’t step again into that familiar house where the nights stretched endlessly, where we danced drunk under the haze of music, where our laughter cracked the silence of 3 am. I wouldn’t sing out loud with my friends until my voice was raw, my heart so full it hurt.

The rain outside mirrored everything I felt. Half grief, half cleansing. There was still so much left undone. So many streets left to wander, so many faces I hadn’t met, so many stories I hadn’t sat down to hear. The bustle of the traffic, the chaos of vendors calling into the night, the glass towers rising like monuments to dreams—all of it seemed to be slipping away behind the rain-streaked window.

I wished I had stayed longer, stretched the days thinner, wrung out every drop of meaning. But the truth is, time does not wait, and neither do planes.

The boarding call pierced through the noise of my thoughts. My flight was ready. I crushed the cigarette against the damp concrete and picked up my bag, the echo of raindrops still in my ears as I walked towards the gate. Each step was an unspoken goodbye.

This city had been more than just a second home. It was an escape from the familiar, a place where I had learned to breathe differently, laugh differently, even love differently.