Silent Vows [ONESHOT]
We were just kids when we made that promise, standing under the flickering streetlight where the insects always danced in its pale glow, our shadows stretching long and thin on the cracked pavement, and even though we were young, we swore with all the seriousness in our hearts that we would love each other forever, never separate, that on our eighteenth birthday, when we were finally “grown,” we would confess the words we had both been carrying inside but never dared to say out loud, because it felt too sacred, too fragile, too big for the childish mouths we still had, and for years I clung to that promise like it was the only certainty in my life, like it was a star in the night sky that would never fall, but fate didn’t care about promises, fate didn’t care about childhood dreams, because on the very day we turned eighteen, on the day I had been rehearsing in my head for years, imagining the warmth in her eyes when I said “I love you,” I was dragged away, hands grabbing me rough and merciless, my father’s enemies turning me into nothing more than a pawn, and I remember the sharp taste of blood in my mouth, the way my ribs screamed with every kick, the way the world blurred in and out like a broken film reel, and yet even in that moment, as I was beaten until I could barely breathe, all I could think was, I can’t die yet, not before I see her, not before I keep my promise, but they didn’t care, they used me as leverage until I was worthless, then threw me into a wasteland like I was trash, just a broken toy tossed aside, and I remember lying there on the dirt, the sun scorching above, flies buzzing around me like I was already a corpse, my chest heavy with every ragged breath, and I remember praying, begging, just to glimpse her one more time, just once, before everything went black, and then there was nothing but silence until I opened my eyes in a hospital three days later, tubes in my arms, the smell of disinfectant burning my nose, a stranger’s voice telling me I was lucky to be alive, though I didn’t feel lucky at all, because pieces of me were missing—my memories, my clarity, my sense of who I had been—and when the government official came, cold-eyed and mechanical, handing me a stack of money as “compensation,” I realized they thought my whole life, my whole pain, could be measured in bills and receipts, and I wanted to scream at them that no amount of money could fill the emptiness where she was supposed to be, but I didn’t scream, I just took it, because what else could I do, and for years I tried to live, I tried to breathe, but every night I dreamed of her, her laugh, her eyes, her touch that I had never even gotten the courage to ask for, and ten years later the weight of that broken promise pulled me back, dragged me to the old neighborhood like some invisible chain, only to find that my house, the one where we used to sneak cookies and sit on the porch talking about nothing, was gone, demolished, replaced by a park where children laughed, and their laughter felt like it was mocking me, like it was saying you don’t belong here anymore, but somehow the old store was still standing, the door creaking the same way, the faint smell of spices and wood dust lingering in the air, and when the owner saw me, his eyes widened, his face shifting from shock to something softer, heavier, and he told me—voice trembling, almost in disbelief—that she had been coming there for years, asking about me, never giving up, and the weight of those words nearly split my chest open, because it meant she had kept waiting, even when I was gone, and I stumbled out, half in tears, into an internet café with the stale stink of cigarettes and overheated computers, hands shaking as I typed her name, desperate, searching, until suddenly I heard it, that voice—older, sharper, but still undeniably hers—and my blood froze, my fingers hovering as her face appeared on screen, beautiful, mature, commanding in a way that made the whole world stop, she was a CEO now, untouchable, her cold reputation plastered across headlines, but to me she was still the girl who once shared candy with me under the summer sun, the girl who held my hand when I was afraid of the dark, and when I saw the “partner” box on her profile was blank, relief surged through me so powerful I nearly cried, but suspicion gnawed at the edges—why have a place for something that didn’t exist, unless she had waited for it to?—and I couldn’t stop the flood inside me, I went back to the store, where the owner let me stay, and while wandering his shelves I spotted it, a rusty, dusty box on the top, and when I pulled it down and opened it, the breath left my lungs, because inside were the little stars, the clumsy folded paper stars I had once made with bleeding fingers and sleepless nights, 366 of them, one for every day of the year and one extra because I told her, I swore, that I would always be with her, and when I touched them, the memories came rushing back, like waves crashing, her smile, her laugh, her way of looking at me as though nothing else existed, and I clutched that box so tightly my hands trembled as the owner told me the story—how she had thrown it down the day my house was demolished, crying, screaming, breaking apart in the street, and how he had saved it because he knew it mattered—and I couldn’t hold it in anymore, I ran, my legs carrying me to her company, where guards shoved me back, saying I couldn’t see the CEO without an appointment, but through the glass I saw her, elegant, untouchable, waiting for an elevator with files in her hands, and then her eyes lifted, meeting mine, and in that single heartbeat the world froze, and she walked straight to me, her voice sharp, angry, trembling as she demanded where I had been, and my words spilled out—kidnapping, hospital, memory loss—but in her ears they were excuses, cowardice, and when she said I had broken the promise, that I had run away because I was too afraid, it cut deeper than any blade, but then her eyes fell on the box in my hands, and I saw them glisten red, with anger, with sorrow, maybe both, and then she turned away, stepping into the elevator, and just before the doors closed I saw her cover her face with her hand, shoulders trembling, and I waited outside her building for three days, the first day catching a glimpse of her with puffy, swollen eyes, the second day watching her walk beside another man, smiling faintly as he held her close, and it shattered me, because that smile should have been mine, that closeness should have been mine, and I wanted to hate him, but I couldn’t, I hated myself more, and then on the third day she came alone, her voice breaking as she told me she had waited for me for years, every season, every birthday, until hope betrayed her and she finally gave up, and now she was marrying him next month, and when her hands shook as she pulled off her necklace, my breath caught, because hanging from it was one of my stars, the one she said she carried everywhere, believing it would bring me back, and now that I was here she pressed it into my palm with trembling fingers, whispering that it was mine, and walked away with tears burning her cheeks, and I stood there like a fool clutching that last piece of her, until the day of her wedding came, and I saw her radiant, breathtaking, a goddess in white, smiling brighter than she ever had in the years without me, and when I found her later, drunk and vulnerable, I told her the only thing left inside me—that she deserved happiness, someone better than me—and then I walked out into the night, the cool air sharp in my lungs, my chest heavy as though the world itself was crushing me, and then my head split, pain blinding, the world spinning until I collapsed, and when I opened my eyes again, I was back in the store, but the air was different, clean, light, untouched by years, and when my gaze fell on the calendar, my heart stopped—it was one day after our eighteenth birthday, not ten years later, just the very next day—and I staggered to the owner, desperate for answers, but he only laughed, saying my parents were away on a trip and had left me to stay there for a sleepover, and I wanted to believe I had gone insane, that everything had been some cruel hallucination, until I heard it, that bright, familiar ring of a bicycle bell, the one that always meant she was coming, and I bolted outside, heart in my throat, and there she was, not the CEO, not the cold woman hardened by years, but the girl I had always loved, her hair messy from the wind, cheeks flushed from the ride, eyes wide as I ran to her, and I grabbed her before she could speak, holding her as if I could keep her from ever slipping away, kissing her through the tears that blurred my vision, whispering into her lips, I’ll never leave you again, never, I swear it, and though she looked at me confused, though she didn’t understand, her cheeks burned red and her eyes softened, and she smiled, shy and beautiful, saying she never asked me to leave, and in that fragile moment, with her warmth in my arms, I knew I had been given a second chance, and I swore with every fiber of my soul I would never waste it, not again, not ever.
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