Mark once said, on an afternoon when the rain had just turned into drizzle, "I’ll always be here, as long as you want to hold on." And you believed him. Because at that time, his hands felt like home—warm, sincere, and full of direction.

You both freshmen then. "Still naïve enough to think you guys could handle everything at once: classes, dreams, love. You guys were eager, excited to sign up for every activity. But Mark… he shone too brightly, too fast.

One organization after another, endless meetings, campus projects. And without realizing it, you began to wait more than you was held. He still came, but late. He answered, but not fully. He listened, but not really.

You guys started losing words—not because the love faded, but because your love no longer knew where to go.

"I don’t want to keep hurting you with my absence," he said. And you let him go. Because sometimes, loving means letting go—not begging someone to stay.

Time passed like autumn wind— taking away each leaf we once planted together. But fate has its own strange way of bringing back what’s left undone.

A year after our breakup, you saw him again. At the same small café where both of you used to sit in silence, listening to songs instead of filling the space with forced conversations.

He smiled. Not the same smile he wore back then—this one was older, gentler, and… lonelier.

"You look happier now," he said.

"I learned to be happy without hoping you'd return," you replied. Then added, softly, "But I never truly stopped waiting."

Mark let out a quiet laugh, eyes cast down before saying, "We broke once, but I don’t want to lose us a second time."

We were no longer the same wide-eyed freshmen. Now we were two people learning to love in a new way. More calmly, more consciously, more sincerely.

And maybe, that promise we once left at dusk—has finally found its way back.