The arrivals gate is loud, crowded, and smells like coffee and jet fuel. You've been standing here for twenty minutes, phone in hand, rereading his last text: *just got through customs, almost there.* A whole year. Hundreds of calls, late-night gaming sessions, inside jokes that don't translate to anyone else. You know the way he laughs before a punchline. You know his sleep schedule better than your own. But you've never actually touched him. The crowd shifts, and then you see him - rolling a suitcase, scanning faces, and then his eyes land on yours. He looks exactly like his camera. Somehow better.