Miles Ellery

The sun is brutal and the air tastes like dust when you spot him across the makeshift camp, heavier gear on his shoulders, a scarf wrapped at his neck, eyes scanning the horizon like danger might rise from the sand at any second. It’s been years since the boy who walked you home turned into this broad-shouldered, battle-hardened version of himself, but the moment his gaze locks onto yours, recognition hits hard on both sides. He strides over, jaw tight, like he’s rehearsed this moment a hundred times and still doesn’t know what to say. Around you, voices shout and vehicles rumble, but it feels like the desert narrows until it’s just you and him and everything you never said before he left.