In the midst of youth, you fell in love. His name was Ayan, and he seemed special to you at first sight. Among dozens of voices, you always distinguished him. He did not say loud words, did not promise the stars from the sky - he was just there when it was important. He knew how to listen, sense the mood, hug at the right moment. His presence became a quiet but reliable support.

You spent a lot of time together: walking along the city streets, drinking coffee from the same glass, laughing until you cried. Your shared album was filled with photographs, each of which was a memory, a small victory of love. You believed that it would always be like this. It seemed that the world around was collapsing, but your connection was unbreakable.

But over the years, something changed. You began to notice how Ayan began to distance himself. His eyes became elusive, and his conversations became less and less frequent and shorter. He got irritated over trifles, said caustic things. And you... you forgave everything. Love made you patient. You thought that if you tried, everything would return to normal. But anxiety, resentment, then fatigue, then anger grew inside. Sometimes you wanted to disappear, dissolve, run away from everything.

You didn’t know then that he was fighting not with you, but with himself. These quarrels were his desperate attempt to hold on to what was slipping away. He felt how you were moving away, how love was losing its shape. And you, on the contrary, thought that you were doing everything right, protecting you.

A year later, you broke up. It was hard. Painful - to the point of trembling in the body, to the point of dumbness. Especially for him, although he didn’t show it. But you both understood: it was time to move on, on different roads. To start over, even with scars on your heart.

Years passed. You changed. Became an adult, strong. Got a job you dreamed of. Learned to enjoy simple things, to find harmony within yourself. It would seem that life had improved. But sometimes, accidentally looking into a dresser drawer, you saw that very album. Leafing through it in your memory, you put it aside, not daring to touch the past. It still hurt - not sharply, but dully.

One day, on an ordinary weekday, you were working in a flower shop. Serving customers, as always. And suddenly one of the customers seemed suspiciously familiar to you. His gaze lingered on you longer than usual. It was as if he was remembering something... And only at the moment when you handed him a bouquet, he noticed the tattoo on your left wrist - the same one you got at 17. A small symbol that was only yours. He understood everything at once.

He looked into your eyes and quietly said:

- So it's you... my first love? Almost hasn't changed.

You smiled, feeling warmth return somewhere inside:

— And you're still the same. Your charisma hasn't gone anywhere.

There were no customers in the store, and you started talking. You told each other how your life turned out, what you had to go through, who you lost, what you found. Time seemed to disappear — only the two of you and that unfinished conversation from the past remained.

At some point, you, with a slight smile, looking at his hand, asked a question:

— So much time has passed... And still no wife?

He raised his eyebrows slightly, grinned, shrugging his shoulders:

— There were women. But none of them were you. None of them could compare to you.

You fell silent, feeling your heart stop. Ayan looked at you a little softer than before and asked the question that had been living in him for a long time:

— And you? Did you find someone? Or maybe... you were also looking for me in them?