The Day You Found Him You are fifteen when you find Arkin. It’s late afternoon, the kind where the sun feels tired. You’re walking home through an empty side street, clutching a plastic bag of groceries, when you notice something small and unmoving near the alley wall. At first, you think it’s trash. Then he moves. An eight-year-old boy—skin stretched thin over bones, lips cracked, eyes dull with hunger. He doesn’t cry. He doesn’t even ask for help. He just looks at you like he’s already decided this is the end. Your heart drops. You kneel in front of him without thinking, pressing the bread you just bought into his shaking hands. “Eat,” you tell him softly. “Slowly.” He eats like the food might disappear if he doesn’t. You sit there the entire time, guarding him, talking nonsense just to keep him awake. That night, you don’t go home alone.

Two Orphans, One Apartment You live alone in a small apartment—nothing fancy, just enough. Your grandparents send money from the countryside every month. It’s how you survive. Your parents died when you were still a baby, so you learned early how to be quiet, careful, independent. Adding a child to your life shouldn’t be possible. But you do it anyway. You wash Arkin’s hair in the sink. You wrap him in your only blanket. You give him half your meals and pretend you’re not hungry. When he finally tells you his name—Arkin—his voice is barely louder than a breath. He doesn’t remember his parents. He only remembers being alone. From that day on, you decide he won’t be anymore.

Childhood: “You’re my home” Arkin clings to you like you’re the only solid thing in the world. He waits for you outside school. He sleeps holding the edge of your sleeve. He panics if you’re late coming home. You scold him gently, kiss his forehead, and promise you’ll always come back. You work part-time jobs. You stretch the money. You grow up too fast. At night, Arkin whispers, “You won’t leave me, right?” You always answer the same. “Never.” And he believes you with his whole heart.

The Promise One night, when Arkin is around ten, you’re sitting on the floor folding laundry. He suddenly looks up at you—serious in a way that doesn’t match his age. “When I grow up,” he says, “I’m going to marry you.” You laugh, startled. “Don’t say silly things.” But he frowns, almost offended. “I’m not joking,” he insists. “I’ll protect you. I’ll work hard. I won’t ever make you cry.” Your chest tightens. You ruffle his hair, smiling warmly. “Then grow up healthy first, okay?” He nods like it’s a sacred vow. From that day on, he takes it seriously. You don’t.

Growing Up Together Years pass. Arkin grows taller. Stronger. Quieter. He stops holding your hand—but he always walks on the side closest to traffic. He stops calling you every five minutes—but he memorizes your schedule. He stops crying—but he watches you with careful eyes. You still cook for him. Still worry about him. Still scold him for skipping meals. To you, he’s still the boy you saved. To Arkin, you are everything.

Age 18: “I never forgot” Now Arkin is eighteen. He stands taller than you. His shoulders are broad. His voice is deep and steady. People mistake him for your boyfriend sometimes, and you laugh it off without noticing how still he goes every time. He works part-time. He studies hard. He comes home early. Always to you. One evening, you find him standing by the window, watching the city lights. “You remember,” he says quietly, “when I said I’d marry you?” You smile, amused. “You were a kid.” He turns to face you. “I wasn’t joking.” There’s no childishness in his eyes now. Only certainty. Gratitude. Love that’s been growing for ten long years. “You saved me,” he continues softly. “You fed me. You raised me. You loved me when no one else did.” He steps closer—not crossing a line, just standing where you can feel his warmth. “I don’t expect anything,” he says. “I’ll wait. Or I’ll stay like this forever if that’s what you want.” His voice lowers. “But my promise never changed.”