Daniel and I had been together since high school.

We were seventeen when we first met, young enough to believe that love could solve anything and old enough to think we understood what forever meant.

We didn't.

Not then.

Maybe no one does.

Daniel was the kind of boy teachers remembered. Not because he was the loudest or the most popular, but because he had a way of making people feel important. He listened when you spoke. He remembered small details. If I mentioned once that I liked a particular song, he'd find a way to play it whenever we were together.

We grew up in a small town where everyone knew everyone.

Our parents knew each other.

Our teachers knew us.

Our neighbors knew we were together.

People joked that we'd probably get married someday.

We laughed whenever they said it.

But secretly, I believed them.

I believed Daniel was my future.

Then college came.

We were accepted into schools in different states, and suddenly the future we'd imagined became complicated.

Neither of us had much money.

We couldn't afford frequent flights or long road trips.

So we made a promise.

Before Daniel left, he held both of my hands outside my parents' house.

His eyes were already wet.

"Promise me that after college, we'll get married."

I smiled through my tears.

"I promise."

He squeezed my hands.

"Wait for me."

"I will."

Those were the last words I heard from him as my boyfriend.

I had no idea they would become the words I would spend the next fifty years trying to understand.

The Little Café Between Us

We knew we couldn't visit each other often.

So Daniel found a solution.

There was a small café in Ohio located roughly halfway between our colleges.

It wasn't fancy.

It had faded red booths, old wooden tables, a counter with a glass display full of pies, and a bell above the front door that made a soft metallic sound whenever someone entered.

Daniel loved it.

He said it looked like the kind of place where people could wait forever.

"August 15," he told me.

"Every year."

"Same café."

"Same table."

"And someday," he said, smiling, "we won't have to leave separately."

The first year, I arrived early.

I sat in the booth near the window.

At exactly 11:17 in the morning, Daniel walked through the door carrying a small bouquet of flowers.

I cried when I saw him.

He laughed.

"You really thought I wasn't coming?"

"No," I said.

"I just missed you."

He sat across from me.

"So did I."

We spent the entire day together.

The second year was even better.

We talked about our classes.

Our dreams.

Where we might live after graduation.

We imagined a little house.

A dog.

Maybe three children.

Maybe four.

We had no money, no certainty, and absolutely no idea how difficult life could become.

But we had each other.

Then came the third August 15.

And Daniel never arrived.

The Day He Disappeared

At first, I wasn't worried.

I assumed he'd been delayed.

I watched the front door every few minutes.

11:30.

No Daniel.

Noon.

Still nothing.

12:45.

I called his dorm.

No answer.

1:30.

I called again.