I can’t even remember when we first met. We were too little. Just kids from the same apartment block, playing outside from morning till dusk — tag, jump rope with a piece of elastic, soccer with plastic bottles, the smell of sour cherries in the summer, and hands stained with the chalk we used to draw on the pavement.
Marius was always there. Always. He laughed easily, pulled harmless pranks, and had this way of making you feel like every problem was just a joke waiting to be told.
He and another close friend shared the same birthday, and a few times we celebrated them together — plastic cups filled with cheap orange soda and a cake from the corner bakery. Back then, we felt invincible.
Then life started pulling us in different directions.
Marius’s mother died young. Far too young. Before I lost my own mom. His father couldn’t handle the grief and drowned himself in alcohol. And Marius… although he looked the same, his smile slowly shifted — a little tired, a little crooked.
We still walked to school together. Still came home together. But eventually, his footsteps drifted from mine.
When we started going to clubs as teenagers, Marius came with us a couple of times. Then he stopped. He’d made a new friend somewhere near the student dorms. It was normal — we were growing up, circles were changing — but it still surprised me when he didn’t apply to college, because he was a smart kid.
For a while he worked at a grocery store downtown. I’d see him sometimes — he’d smile politely, but it wasn’t the same smile I grew up with.
After his father passed away, he sold the apartment and… vanished.
For years, I heard nothing. A childhood friend told me he’d seen him once — thin, pale, wearing dirty clothes. He said Marius looked drunk.
It hurt to hear it. But… everyone has their own life, right?
Until one winter night.
It was the kind of cold that snaps the air in two. I threw on my long coat, tugged the beanie over my eyes, hood over that — the full “just going out for 3 minutes to buy cigarettes” outfit. The snow squeaked under my boots, and I remember thinking, a bit ironically, that even stray dogs didn’t deserve to be out that night.
On the way back, I heard footsteps behind me. Then a voice:
— “Ma’am… could you spare a cigarette?”
I turned around.
And froze.
It was Marius. He didn’t recognize me.
His eyes met mine. They filled instantly with tears. He wanted to run.
— “What are you doing out here?” I asked, barely able to get the words out.
— “Aida… I didn’t mean to scare you… I didn’t realize it was you…”
I reached into my pocket and handed him my pack of cigarettes — and all the cash I had on me.
— “Take it, Marius. And if you wait two minutes, I’ll bring you more from upstairs.”
He took everything, eyes wet, voice shaking. He said “thank you” and walked away.
That was the last time I saw him.
A few months later, I found out he had died. A neighbor told me.
He’d gotten sick with hepatitis from injecting drugs.
He was just a bit over 30.
I spent a long time wondering where it all fell apart.
What happened?
Why did a boy who was just as alive, just as full of hope as I was, end up on the streets, while I ended up here — with a stable job, a warm home, a family?
Maybe I’ll never know.
But I hope.
I hope that somewhere, he found peace.
That he saw his mother again.
That he found himself.
That he forgave himself.
Sometimes, on winter nights, I step out onto the balcony, light a cigarette, and think of Marius.
I still hear his footsteps in the snow, and that trembling voice:
— “Ma’am…”
I can’t forget him.
I don’t want to.