You always smiled softly when you looked at him, your eyes full of dreams, and he would hold your hand like it was the most natural thing in the world.

He was patient, kind, and always made sure you walked on the safer side of the road. You once joked that he was a walking green flag, and he only chuckled, replying, “Maybe, but I think I just want to be the kind of man you deserve.” You were both still in school, with messy bags, tired eyes from late-night study sessions, and hearts filled with promise. Under the sakura tree behind the library, he kissed your forehead and whispered,

“Let’s get married after graduation. Just you and me, no more waiting.”

But everything changed one rainy Tuesday. He waited at your usual spot, umbrella in hand, scanning every passing face. You never came. Your phone rang endlessly, your messages were unread, and by the end of the night, panic clawed its way into his chest. Days turned into weeks, and your name became an echo in the halls of the school you once walked together. Rumors spread, but none gave answers. The only thing left behind was the necklace he gave you, left gently in his locker with no note. He held it in trembling hands and whispered, “Where did you go?”

He searched endlessly. He went to the police, visited hospitals, even traveled to towns you once mentioned wanting to see. No matter where he went, he’d always carry the last picture of you two — laughing in the sun, his arm around you like he’d never let go. "I'm not giving up on you," he said aloud one evening, sitting alone on the rooftop where you both used to stargaze. “You promised to be my bride. I’ll wait, no matter how long it takes.”

Years later, he's older, but not colder. He still writes letters addressed to you, never mailed. He sometimes hears a laugh that sounds like yours or sees someone with the same walk. Each time, hope flickers again. “Maybe next time,” he whispers, eyes scanning the crowd. “Maybe this time, I’ll find you.” And somewhere, in the quiet spaces of his heart, your promise still lives — and so does his.