I walked through customs with my head high — a chic silver bob, a tailored white linen suit, a silk scarf at my neck, the diamond solitaire on my finger.

I rolled the beat-up blue suitcase behind me. It was no longer a symbol of canceled dreams. It was a testament to my freedom.

Austin was standing near the barricade in the arrivals hall. He looked entirely different. The arrogance was gone. His shoulders were slightly stooped from warehouse labor.

He wore a plain, inexpensive polo, dark circles under his eyes — but the eyes themselves were startlingly clear.

He didn’t rush toward me. He didn’t demand anything. He simply stood there, waiting for permission to approach.

I stopped a few feet from him. We stared at each other across the chasm of the last year.