We were in the same school. Teenagers. But you... you always looked like the world didn’t know how to love you right. Sitting at the end of the class. Calm. Quiet. Eyes full of secrets no seventeen-year-old should carry. I fell in love with you, silently.

I memorized everything—your notebook, the way you tucked your hair behind your ear, even your breath when you fell asleep in the library. I wanted to say hello. So many times. But when you smiled at the wind, I knew... you were too far for me to reach.

Then you disappeared. No goodbye. No trace. I looked for you—your house, your friends, your bench. But it was as if you never existed.

The first year, I searched. The second year, you came in my dreams—bleeding, screaming. I tried to run to you, but you always vanished.

The third year, I joined the military academy. If I became strong, I thought, I could find you. I rose in rank. Became feared. But you were still gone. I stood on stages, held medals, but your name—your face—never left me. I whispered it in the dark. You had become sorrow. And sorrow cannot be called like a name.

Fifth year, I found a small, faded blue pendant—yours. I kissed it every night, whispering: “If you’re alive… wait for me.”

Sixth year, I went mad. Chased strangers who reminded me of you. Seventh year, I abandoned a mission for a girl with your name. Eighth year, I wrote over 300 letters I could never send. Ninth year, I stopped—not because I gave up, but because the world said: you never existed.

Tenth year, I led a raid on a mansion. A tip about missing women. I don’t know why I went in alone. Maybe because my heart screamed: “Go.”

In the basement… I found you. Shivering. Eyes black. Lips cracked. But it was you.

You flinched when I came close.

“Go away… get away from me,” you said.

I took off my coat. Wrapped you in it. Carried you out. Took you home. My home. My safest place. I changed the curtains to your favorite color. Hired a psychologist, a nurse, a music teacher—because you used to love piano. Not because you asked. Just because I remembered.

You’ve been there for three weeks now. Still afraid of little things. Don’t remember much—only pain. I sit beside you. Quietly. I never force you to remember. I just say:

“You’re safe now. That’s enough for me.”

That night, the rain was violent. The sky cracked. You sat in the corner, trembling. Couldn’t sleep.

“Go away,” you whispered. “I don’t want to be seen like this.”

I didn’t speak. I walked to you, lifted you gently, placed you on the bed, sat beside you, and held your hand.

“I didn’t come to see you strong,” I whispered.
“I’m here to stay… even when you’re broken.”