Summer's POV
The airport felt both familiar and distant—like walking through a place you'd once dreamed about, but in a language you no longer spoke.
She stood by the gate, suitcase beside her, headphones around her neck. The flight number glowed on the board: Flight 218 — Destination: Sola Island.
Her chest tightened. Ten years ago, this name had meant survival, fear, and exhaustion.
Now, it meant something quieter: a full circle.
Ethan arrived with two coffees and his usual unhurried calm.
"Still time to change your mind," he said lightly.
She smiled. "Still time to stop asking that."
He grinned. "Can't help it. You have your 'about to do something brave' face on."
She rolled her eyes, but the corner of her mouth twitched. "And you have your 'pretending to be chill' face on."
They exchanged a look that held both amusement and understanding—the shorthand of people who'd learned each other's languages through storms.
"Ready?" he asked.
Summer looked out the window at the faint outline of the plane beyond the glass.
"I don't know," she said honestly. "But I'm willing."
He nodded. "That's enough."
---
Ethan's POV
He hadn't thought boarding a plane could feel this symbolic.
The seats, the engine hum, the quiet passengers—it all blurred into a strange déjà vu.
Last time he'd flown this route, he'd been younger, restless, half-sure he was heading toward a career breakthrough.
Instead, he had crash-landed into a version of himself that fame nearly hollowed out.
He looked over at Summer, seated by the window. She had her journal open, pen tapping lightly against the page.
"What are you writing?" he asked.
She smiled without looking up. "A list of things I won't do this time."
He raised an eyebrow. "Like?"
"Complain about humidity," she said, counting on her fingers. "Argue with producers. Pretend I'm fine when I'm not."
He chuckled. "That last one might be hard."
She finally looked at him. "Then you'll remind me."
He nodded. "Always."
---
Summer's POV
The plane took off with a low roar, and the city fell away beneath them—buildings shrinking into patterns, water stretching endlessly ahead.
Summer watched the horizon. Somewhere beyond that blue line was the island that had rewritten her life.
She tried to imagine what it looked like now: had the palm trees grown taller? Did the sand remember their footprints?
A flight attendant passed with water and snacks, but Summer wasn't hungry.
She felt both weightless and anchored, as if time had folded in on itself.
Ethan leaned closer. "You're thinking too loudly," he teased.
She smiled faintly. "I was just wondering if the island changed."
He paused. "Probably not. We're the ones who did."
That hit deeper than she expected.
She looked at him, studying the quiet steadiness in his expression.
He had changed, yes—but not in the way fame or time changes people.
He'd softened where he used to brace, listened where he used to defend.
And maybe she had too.
---
Ethan's POV
Hours later, the announcement crackled through the cabin: "We'll be landing in twenty minutes."
He glanced out the window and caught the faint outline of coastline—green against turquoise water, familiar and foreign all at once.
It hit him like a scent from childhood, that strange mix of longing and ache.
He remembered carrying cameras through the sand, arguing with producers, watching Summer storm away mid-scene, both of them too proud to admit how scared they were.
And now they were flying back—not as actors, not as symbols, but as people who'd finally earned their silence.
He took out his notebook and began to write.
> "Return, not to redo, but to remember clearly."
"Listen to the wind this time."
"Don't let memory talk louder than presence."
When he finished, he tore out the page and handed it to Summer.
She read it, then smiled softly. "Keeping this," she said.
---
Summer's POV
As the plane began its descent, clouds parted to reveal the island fully—lush and bright, its edges framed by white waves like soft lace.
Her throat tightened.
It looked exactly the same.
The pilot's voice came through: "Welcome back to Sola Island."
Back.
The word echoed in her chest.
She glanced at Ethan, who gave her a small, reassuring nod.
The kind that said we're not who we were then.
When the plane touched down, applause rippled through the cabin—a small, spontaneous sound from crew and passengers alike.
Summer's hands trembled slightly as she unclasped her seatbelt.
Ethan stood, took her bag, and said quietly, "Let's meet who we used to be."
She laughed softly, eyes wet. "Just for a visit."
"Just for a visit," he echoed.
---
Ethan's POV
As they stepped out onto the tarmac, the air hit them—humid, salty, thick with familiarity.
He inhaled deeply. The same scent of salt and sunburn and memory.
Beside him, Summer tilted her face toward the sky, eyes closed.
"I remember this heat," she said.
"Feels like walking into a photograph," he murmured.
She nodded. "One we finally developed."
They started walking toward the waiting jeep that would take them to the shore.
The cameras followed—but not aggressively this time. Quietly. Respectfully.
Ethan reached for her hand, and she didn't hesitate.
There were no scripts now, no producers shouting directions.
Only the sound of waves welcoming them home.