Nothing.

By three o'clock, I was crying.

The café owner, an elderly woman named Ruth, brought me a cup of coffee.

"He'll come," she said.

I nodded.

I wanted to believe her.

By sunset, I was sitting alone in the booth where we'd promised to meet.

Daniel never came.

I returned to my college the next morning.

I called his room.

Nothing.

I called his friends.

Nothing.

Finally, I contacted his parents.

His mother answered.

She was crying before I even finished saying hello.

"Daniel is missing."

My stomach dropped.

"What?"

"The police are looking for him."

"What happened?"

"We don't know."

She told me that Daniel had left his apartment the evening before.

He had taken his wallet.

His keys.

Nothing else.

His car was found several miles away.

His phone was missing.

There was no note.

No explanation.

No goodbye.

Just gone.

The police searched.

His parents searched.

His friends searched.

I searched.

Days became weeks.

Weeks became months.

Eventually, the investigation went cold.

People started telling me things I didn't want to hear.

"He's probably dead."

"Maybe he ran away."

"Maybe he met someone else."

"Maybe he didn't want to come back."

That last possibility hurt more than anything.

Because I knew Daniel.

Or at least I thought I did.

He wouldn't simply disappear without saying goodbye.

Not to me.

Not after asking me to wait.

Fifty Years of August 15

Life continued.

That was the cruelest part.

The world didn't stop because Daniel disappeared.

People kept getting married.

They had children.

They bought houses.

They changed jobs.

They grew old.

I graduated.

I moved home.

I built a career.

I helped my parents.

I watched friends marry and raise families.

Some eventually asked me out.

I always said no.

Not because I believed Daniel would necessarily return.

But because some part of me felt that our story had never actually ended.

There had been no goodbye.

No funeral.

No final letter.

No last conversation.

Just a door that had never been closed.

Every August 15, I returned to Ohio.

At first, people thought it was romantic.

Then they thought it was strange.

Eventually, they stopped asking.

The café changed owners twice.

The menu changed.

The walls were repainted.