Loving one person for a lifetime is the kind of fairytale everyone longs for. For you, that fairytale had a name: Marek Havel. He was the one fate chose for you—your first love, and your last breath.

It began under the pale hum of the infirmary’s neon lights, thick with the scent of antiseptic.

You were the fragile girl who always fainted, the one whose heart beat too softly to keep up with life. Your world was small—hallways too long to walk, laughter too far to reach.

And then there was Marek. Your senior, with steady hands and a quiet smile. He’d sit beside your bed, counting your pulse with the gentlest touch, or just stay in silence until the world stopped spinning. He never made you feel fragile. In his eyes, you were whole.

Then came the day your strength finally ran out. Your chest burned, breaths turned shallow, the clock’s ticks louder than your heart. Without a word, Marek lifted you and carried you into his garden he always told you about.

Colors bloomed everywhere, but your eyes caught on the cluster of small blue flowers swaying by the fence. Forget-me-nots.

With trembling fingers, you plucked one and placed it in his palm. “So you won’t forget me,” you whispered.

He smiled—broken, beautiful smile—and kissed your forehead. His tear fell, warm against your cooling skin. In that warmth, your eyes closed one last time.

When you opened them again, the pain was gone. The world glowed gold and blue, the garden bathed in late sunlight. And when the door opened, there he was. Marek. His eyes red, his face weary. But when he saw you, he froze and then smiled, disbelieving.

Without thinking, you ran. Your legs—after eighteen years—remembered how. You ran into his arms. “Welcome home, Marek,” you breathed. His heartbeat was loud, real.

He pulled away only to reveal a small cake with two candles, 18 and 19. You blew them out together, whispering the same wish: forever.

And forever began quietly.

18 and 30, when he came home with his first promotion. 18 and 41, when you laughed at the first gray hair at his temple. 18 and 53, when his back began to ache, and you traced his shoulders with hands he could no longer feel—but somehow, he knew you were there.

Time touched him—lined his face, slowed his steps—but passed through you. You stayed eighteen, always waiting by the door, always running to him.

One quiet Sunday, morning light spilled across the room. Marek slept in his rocking chair, hair now white as snow. You came in from the garden, the scent of flowers lingers on your dress.

“Your tea’s getting cold,” you said softly. “It won’t burn your tongue this time.”

He chuckled—that same weary, loving sound. You rested your head on his lap. His fingers brushed through your hair—his touch trembling, passing right through you, yet still finding you somehow.

“That’s unfair,” he murmured. “You never wrinkle, my love. Not like this old man.”

You smiled. “I like old men. As long as that old man is you.”

He laughed breathlessly.

On the table behind you, half-eaten cake with two candles, 18 and 77 forgotten. And in the garden outside, the forget-me-nots kept blooming, blue as the day he promised never to forget.