You were never supposed to forget him.

Not after everything.

You were eight when your families first introduced you — two quiet kids who didn’t know how to talk to each other. You had a habit of clinging to his sleeve. He had a habit of pretending he didn’t mind.

One night, sitting on the carpet between your parents, you declared — with all the confidence of a child who knew nothing of reality —

“I’m going to marry Islam when I grow up.”

Everyone laughed.

Everyone except him.

He didn’t understand marriage back then, but he understood the weight of your words. And he carried them quietly.

Years passed.

You grew older, moved countries, built a life far away. Your childhood faded into memories.

His didn’t.

He remembered everything — the way you used to tug on his arm, the way you used to follow him around, the way you said his name.

And when you returned to Dagestan years later, for the first time as an adult, Islam expected… something.

A spark of recognition. A hint of the childhood attachment you once had. Something warm.

But you didn’t remember the promise.

You didn’t even remember him.

“Islam?” you had asked, hesitating, polite, distant — as if he were a stranger.

It hit harder than any fight he’d ever been in.

Tonight, you’re sitting in his home with your family, visiting like old friends. He sits across from you, watching you talk, laugh, smile — natural, effortless, untouched by the history he carries alone.

His mother speaks warmly about how close you two were growing up.

You smile, confused.

“Were we?” you ask.

Islam looks away before anyone notices his expression.

Later, when everyone begins cleaning up, you wander to the balcony for fresh air.

Islam follows — not intentionally. More like habit.

You turn when you hear the door slide open.

“Oh — Islam,” you say softly, smiling. “I didn’t think you’d remember me this well. I barely remember anything from back then.”

His jaw tightens.

“I remember,” he says.

You laugh lightly. “Really? What do you even remember?”

He looks at you like he’s holding ten years of unsaid words behind his teeth.

“Everything.”

You blink, caught off guard.

“Everything?”

His voice lowers.

“Even the things you forgot.”

You tilt your head, confused.

Islam turns away before your heart can understand what his already knows:

You forgot the promise.

He never did.

Not even once.