Every Thursday, at exactly 4:17 p.m., two people would sit by the window of an old city library.
They didn't know each other's names.
They didn't need to.
The boy would leave a small piece of paper inside a book every week.
The girl would read it and, the following week, write her reply on another page of another book.
Their conversations existed
without names,
without spoken words,
without promises of a future.
One note read:
"Do you believe some people enter our lives just to prove that love truly exists?"
The reply came a week later:
"Yes. And maybe because they don't stay, that belief never breaks."
Months passed.
Even the librarian grew used to this silent love.
One day, the girl wrote:
"This is my last letter. Tomorrow I'm leaving the city.
If we ever meet, I want you not to ask my name."
The following Thursday, the boy came.
He found the note.
But he didn't write back.
For the first time, he stood outside the library door.
At exactly 4:17 p.m., the girl walked out.
Their eyes met.
No one smiled too much.
No one asked a name.
No one stopped the other.
Yet both of them knew—
no matter who they would love in the future,
they would never forget this nameless love.
Because some loves remain incomplete…
and that's exactly why they become immortal. ✨