The problem with airports is that you inevitably have some of your most private moments in the most public of places.
You’re aware that people are watching. The security guys outside immigration. The girls eyeing the size of your cabin bags. The teenagers on a school trip. Everyone else walking by or milling about.
But you don’t want to skimp on goodbyes. You don’t want to skimp on letting someone know how much you’ll miss them and how much they’ll have to take care because you might not see them again for a long long time. Or maybe never. You don’t want to skimp just because you’re embarassed, especially not when you’re saying goodbye to someone you’ve cared so much about for so long.
Over his shoulder, I eye a teenage boy immulating us, hugging his friend in an exaggerated display of affection and then laughing out loud.
Airports are public. It means you can’t break down. It means you have to act in a publicly-acceptable way. You can’t just start bawling. You can’t just crawl into bed and curl into a ball and pull your covers over your head because your bed is still an hour and a half away.
You turn and walk away numb and teary, but you’ve gotta keep it together, because the only person who would give you a hug and make it better is now on the other side of the terminal. You’ll just be a freak walking through the airport crying.
I hate it. It sounds like some soppy Korean drama and yet here I am. I walk in a way that I hope show that I was full of purpose. Like I have somewhere to go, some place to be, someone to be with.
But really, who am I kidding? The person I want to be with is not here anymore. If I could, I would’ve just stayed in the same spot and cry and cry.