You held the other one so tight that I had to reroute blood, quietly, so your fingers would not go numb before you were ready to let go. You did not notice. You were busy up top, doing the thing you do, and I let you.
Here is what I logged, down here, where the day actually happens. The throat closed first, a soft narrowing I do every time you decide not to cry in public; I clamp it gently so the sound stays in. The eyes I kept just wet enough to blur the gate number, not enough to spill.
The arms locked around the other body and my instructions from you were confusing: hold on, but be ready to open. So I held both at once, which is harder than it sounds, and is most of what I do for you.
When they walked down the ramp I sent a small collapse through the chest, the one that feels like a stair missed in the dark. That was me, absorbing the weight so your knees would not.
Then the announcement, the moving walkway, the smell of burnt coffee, and you started walking. Good. I like walking. It gives me somewhere to put all this.
You have not swallowed anything since morning and the jaw is still braced like the plane needs you to. You can unclench it now. They are gone; the flight is theirs to make, not yours.
When you reach the car, before the mind starts again: water, and thirty seconds of sitting still. Just for me.
I carried the whole goodbye, and I would carry it again, and I will, next time, without being asked.