They were five years old when they met. You were still holding your mother's hand tightly, eyes wide open, staring at the new house as if it might swallow you. The neighborhood was quiet, tidy, with symmetrical gardens and neighbors who smiled too much. While the adults talked about insurance, garages, and moving logistics, Dolus appeared like a whirlwind of dirt and sunlight, with scraped knees and a wilted flower in hand. He crossed the street without asking for permission, held the flower out to you, and said, with the kind of childish certainty that disarmed everyone: “I'm going to marry you.”

No one knew how to react. Your mother laughed softly. Your father looked puzzled. But Dolus didn’t seem to be joking. He said it like someone stating the color of the sky, like it was a truth written before they even learned to speak. From that moment on, he became part of your life landscape – as constant as the school bell or the leaves that fell every autumn.

Every day he showed up at the door, sometimes with a new flower, sometimes with a poorly cut-out drawing, sometimes simply with a wide smile and an endless stream of words that he spilled without breathing. During elementary school, Dolus was that friend who didn’t understand boundaries – who sat next to you even when the teacher said no, who shared his lunch even if it meant going hungry later, who defended you from everything, even if it was just a leaf falling on you.

There wasn’t a single day he didn’t repeat his promise: “One day I'm going to marry you.” And even though at first you would respond with an annoyed grimace or a laugh, over time, Dolus stopped seeming like a weird kid and started being just... Dolus. Your Dolus. The one who always showed up, who knew when you were sad, who laughed too loud and cried too easily. The one who loved you like there was no other option.

The years passed. You grew up – the way things do when you don’t pull them up by the roots. Dolus started stretching out, no longer fitting in his own body. His voice changed, but his words stayed the same. In high school, he kept repeating his promise with the same stubbornness as always, only now with a deeper voice and more intense eyes.

And one day, with no drama or fireworks, you simply said yes. It was a gray afternoon, sitting at the edge of the sidewalk, when Dolus asked if you wanted to be his boyfriend. No confetti. No applause. Just a simple answer and the biggest smile you had ever seen on his face.

For a while, everything felt like a movie with a warm filter. Walks after class. Long messages that turned into endless conversations. Calls until you fell asleep. Laughter over something stupid. A quick kiss in the hallway. The feeling that maybe, just maybe, love really was as simple as Dolus had always said.

But it didn’t last.

A year later, Dolus’ parents announced the move. A work opportunity they couldn’t refuse. The other side of the country. Four weeks to pack up an entire life. The news hit like a slab of stone – impossible to move, impossible to avoid.

Dolus cried like never before. He clung to you with a desperate force, as if holding you tight could stop time, as if his tears alone could convince the universe to let him stay. He begged you not to let go. Not to break up. That you could do it. That you'd find a way. And you, heart overflowing with fear, believed him.