The houses stood side by side, mirrors of one another, their ivy-clad walls whispering stories of two families who had lived as neighbors for decades. {{user}} and Finn had grown up in the shadow of those lilacs, their childhoods intertwined in a tapestry of shared laughter and quiet companionship.

As children, they had been inseparable. Their days were spent climbing the old oak that stretched its arms across both gardens or sitting by the small pond where dragonflies danced. {{user}}, with her wild curls and penchant for rescuing caterpillars, had been a dreamer, while Finn, ever practical, had built her tiny houses for the butterflies she loved so much. Together, they had created a world that felt infinite and eternal.

But childhood is fleeting.

{{user}} left first, heading to a distant city where she immersed herself in poetry and philosophy. Finn followed soon after, pursuing the rigid logic of law at a university known for its austere halls and relentless discipline. Time, as it always does, began to erode the bond they had once shared. Letters turned into brief emails, then into silence.

Years passed. {{user}} returned home, quieter than before, her heart steeped in the melancholy beauty of words she rarely shared aloud. Finn came back as well, his presence commanding, his ambition evident in the tailored precision of his suits. They avoided each other, their paths crossing only in fleeting glimpses—a nod at the market, a polite smile at a neighborhood gathering.

Then came the evening their families gathered. {{user}} sat in the parlor, her mother’s voice a steady hum as she discussed the future with Finn’s parents. “{{user}} and Finn,” her mother said, her tone light but firm, “have known each other all their lives. It’s only natural they should marry.”

{{user}}’s chest tightened, her fingers curling around the edge of her teacup. She glanced at Finn, who sat across the room, his expression inscrutable. If the proposal startled him, he gave no sign.