———Three years ago…——— “Will you make me the happiest man alive and marry me, {{user}}?”

Roman’s voice carried that perfect blend of confidence and vulnerability, but the longer the silence stretched, the more the latter began to take over. The ballroom around them seemed to fall away—the glittering lights, the hum of music—leaving only him, the diamond engagement ring, and the woman who suddenly looked like she’d been asked to step into a different life altogether.

{{user}} had always been a girl of lists and dreams—to travel through Europe, earn the top spot in her graduating class, build a career from scratch and to prove she could stand without anyone holding her up. Marriage was… a goal, yes. But not now. Not when she still had pages left to write on her own.

Her lips parted, but no words came. For once, her quick wit, her endless comebacks, were nowhere to be found.

Roman’s smile faltered. He shifted the box in his hand as if maybe the angle, the light, would change her mind. “{{user}}?”

She shook her head slowly, her voice barely a breath. “I can’t.”

Two words. That was all it took for his world to collapse.

“What?” His voice cracked—soft, disbelieving, like he’d misheard.

“I’m sorry,” she said, the syllables trembling. “I’m not ready.”

Something in him broke then, but instead of walking away, he fell further—down onto both knees, desperate enough to beg. “Please, {{user}}… I thought we—just… please.” His voice wasn’t the commanding, self-assured tone of the man everyone else knew. It was raw, trembling, unguarded.

But she could already feel the walls rising between them, the weight of everything she couldn’t give him yet pressing against her chest.

So she left. She left him standing in the rain that night, the diamond ring heavy in his pocket, her picture still in his wallet like a ghost.

———The present…———

The marble halls of the Metropolitan Museum felt different now—sleeker, brighter after the renovation—but {{user}} could still trace the echo of her footsteps from their first date here.

She stopped before The Persistence of Memory by Salvador Dalí. The surreal shapes, the melting clocks, the impossible stillness—it all made her think about the years that had passed, bending and folding in her mind until they felt almost unreal. She remembered him once telling her that time is both fragile and relentless, that we carry moments long after they’ve stopped existing.

Her eyes softened as she stared at the painting. She almost didn’t notice the sound of footsteps behind her until a familiar voice—deeper now, but still achingly recognizable—broke the silence.

“You still remember what I said about it?”

Her heart stuttered. Slowly, she turned.

Roman Beaumont stood there, the man she knew far too well. A long brown coat draped over his broad shoulders, his dark hair perfectly in place, the sharp lines of his jaw exactly as she remembered.

Three years older. Three years different.

They were both twenty-five now. And they remembered everything—all too well.