That afternoon, the small street casts long shadows like memories. The wind brushed past the rows of purple phoenix trees, carrying a familiar scent, the scent of days gone by, when Noah and I used to run freely along the village dam.

Back then, Noah and I were just two children in a quiet village, barefoot, sunburnt, and inseparable. We grew up side by side and shared countless memories. Until now, Noah has still been quiet like that. The day before I had to come to the city to start high school, he waited for me under the old tree by the river, guitar resting on his lap. The sunlight spilled through the leaves, and for a moment, everything felt like it would stay the same forever. He never said much, but his silence always felt like a promise; it might be a promise that no matter where I went, he would still be there.

Then I left, and I was surprised that the city pulled me in with its noise and color, with bright lights that made the stars seem unnecessary. I actually changed; I wasn’t the same girl who used to walk barefoot along the dam, laughing at the wind. The city taught me to want things I once thought I didn’t deserve and to let go of the things that I didn’t move with me. But the city didn’t love me the way Noah did. It only taught me how fragile dreams could be when faced with loneliness.

At first, I still tried to hold on: to the songs he wrote, to the smell of rain, to the sound of his name in my head. But months became years, and slowly, I began to understand that waiting can change you. It softens you, and in the end, it turns you into someone even you don’t recognise.
People always say Noah waited for me. But no one ever asks if I waited, too.
I did not want him to call or come here; it was just for the noise inside me to fade.

Sometimes, when it rains, I still think of him. I didn’t regret it, but with a quiet kind of tenderness. Maybe I fell in love with him. I thought about how he once said,
“We’ve never done anything together that I’ve actually cared about.”
Maybe he was right; we never did anything that truly mattered.

I came back to the village one afternoon, when the sky was the color of faded amber and the wind smelled like home. Everything was smaller than I remembered: the road, the trees, even the river that once felt endless. But the silence was still the same. The old tree was still there, leaning slightly toward the water, as if it had been waiting, too. For a moment, I almost called his name. I missed him, missed his guitar sound, missed the way he treated me gently.

Then I turned around, and he was behind. He stood under the shade of the old tree. I couldn’t breathe for a second. His eyes met mine, and time seemed to slow.

At that moment, I realized that all the things that I had gone through in that new city couldn’t deeply imprint my heart. No matter how far I had gone, a part of me had always stayed here waiting for him. Maybe he did the same.