Stranded Hearts: 24 Hours With My Ex

I always believed the universe never meddled in human emotions. But that belief ended the day I was stranded at Dubai International Airport with my ex-boyfriend, Hamza.

It was supposed to be a smooth journey back to Lahore after a work trip. I was tired, mentally rehearsing my upcoming presentation and craving chai from home. But as I walked into the boarding area, suitcase wheels humming behind me, my eyes locked onto a familiar back – broad shoulders, messy hair, blue denim jacket.

For a second, my heart stopped. I swallowed hard, trying to convince myself it was just someone similar. But then he turned. Hamza. My ex. The boy I loved for five years and broke up with eight months ago. Our eyes met, and in that silent gaze, memories rushed in like tidal waves.

“Hi,” he said, voice still as gentle as monsoon rain.

“Hi,” I replied, awkwardly.

Before we could speak further, an announcement echoed across the terminal:

"Flight EK622 to Lahore has been delayed due to severe weather conditions. Estimated departure: Tomorrow at 5 PM. We regret the inconvenience."

I closed my eyes. Twenty-four hours. Stuck here. With him.

---

At first, we ignored each other. I sat near Gate C17, pretending to read a novel. He sat two rows behind, scrolling through his phone. But loneliness is a cruel enemy, and after two hours, he walked up to me.

“Do you want coffee?” he asked.

I hesitated but nodded.

We sat at Costa Coffee, sipping silently. I noticed the tired lines under his eyes. He noticed my trembling fingers. Finally, he spoke.

“Do you still write poetry at 3 AM?”

I smiled weakly. “Not anymore. No one to read them now.”

He looked down, guilt washing over his face. “I’m sorry, Areeba. I was stupid to let you go.”

His words pricked the wound I had carefully stitched for months. Tears welled up, but I blinked them back. We had both made mistakes. I was too emotional. He was too practical. We loved differently.

---

As night fell, we lay on separate rows of seats, staring at the airport ceiling. The constant announcements, the echoing footsteps of passengers, the smell of cinnamon buns and jet fuel – it felt unreal.

“Do you ever think about us?” I asked quietly, my voice almost drowned in the hum of the air conditioner.

“All the time,” he whispered.

I turned to him. His eyes glistened with regret, nostalgia, and something I couldn’t define. For the first time, I realised he wasn’t the same boy I left. Life had carved wisdom on his face. Pain had matured him.

---

Morning arrived like a shy guest. Sunlight filtered through massive glass windows, painting golden patches on his sleeping face. I sat watching him, sipping vending machine coffee, wondering if the universe had trapped us here to heal or to say a final goodbye.

When he woke up, he smiled at me. “Thank you for staying with me.”

“As if I had a choice,” I teased softly.

But deep inside, I was grateful too. Grateful for the closure I never got. Grateful for the realisation that yes, I loved him, but life moves forward, with or without old love stories.

---

At 4:50 PM, our flight finally began boarding. We walked towards Gate C22 in silence. Before stepping into the line, he turned to me.

“Areeba,” he said, holding my gaze firmly, “if there’s still a chance… even a little… I’d fight for you.”

I smiled, feeling tears tickle my eyelashes.

“Maybe one day, Hamza,” I said. “But today, let’s just go home.”

And with that, we boarded the plane – two people who loved each other, lost each other, and spent 24 hours remembering that sometimes love isn’t enough, but it will always be beautiful.