even if you forget me

Chapter 15: Even If You Forget Me

The morning started the way it had for weeks now.

She was already awake when I stepped into the room.

The notebook lay open in her lap. Her fingers traced the page gently, like she was afraid the ink might disappear if she pressed too hard.

"Morning," I said softly, stepping closer.

She looked up at me slowly, eyes clouded but not empty.

"I don't know your name," she whispered.

I smiled. "That's okay."

"But I remember the feeling," she added. "That's what matters, right?"

"More than names."

She nodded and looked down again.

Then, like a child remembering a lullaby, she asked:

"Will you read it to me?"

I sat on the edge of the bed and gently began reading from the page:

> "Because the sky is still blue.

Because someone loves me, even when I don't know how to love myself.

Because there are songs I haven't heard yet.

Because I promised him I'd stay."

When I looked up, her eyes were full of tears.

"Did I write that?" she asked.

"We both did," I said.

She didn't say anything for a while. Then, as she wiped a tear from her cheek, she whispered, "I want to believe her. The girl who wrote that. I want to be her."

"You are her," I said. "Even when you forget."

---

We spent that morning walking slow circles through the garden.

She picked flowers. Most of them were wilting, but she didn't mind.

"They're trying," she said. "That's enough for me."

I nodded.

I kept nodding.

Because if I opened my mouth too much, my voice might break, and I needed to be strong—for her.

But the truth was, I was tired.

Not of her. Never of her.

But of watching her disappear and come back and disappear again.

Some days I felt like a lighthouse: standing still, flashing signals in the dark, hoping she'd find me again.

And when she did? It felt like God was real.

But when she didn't?

It felt like I was talking to a stranger wearing the skin of someone I'd once loved more than anything.

---

That night, she had another episode.

She forgot where she was.

She screamed.

She sobbed into her hands, trembling, shaking like her whole body was rejecting reality.

I ran to her side, holding her.

"I don't know you!" she cried. "Why are you here? Where am I?!"

"Spring, it's me. I'm here. I promise you're safe. I swear you're safe."

She fought me at first.

Then she collapsed into me.

Not because she remembered.

But because she needed someone, anyone.

And I was the only one there.

---

When she finally fell asleep in my arms, I sat there for hours.

Watching her chest rise and fall.

Studying her face.

Terrified.

Because the more I loved her, the more I lost her.

And that kind of love—it hurts in places even grief can't touch.

---

The next morning, she didn't remember the night before.

But her voice was softer, like somewhere in her body she knew she'd been held through the storm.

She looked at me and said, "You stayed, didn't you?"

"I always do," I said.

She didn't smile.

She just reached for my hand.

Held it.

Tightly.

Like she didn't want to lose the only thing that still felt real.

---

We tried drawing again.

She wanted to make new constellations.

"New stars for new days," she said.

She handed me the pencil.

"Name this one?"

I drew a small star and wrote next to it: Hope.

She smiled.

Then drew one of her own.

She didn't label it.

Just circled it again and again until the paper wrinkled.

"What's that one called?" I asked.

She paused.

Then said: "Pain."

And for the first time, she looked ashamed.

"I don't want to be this way," she whispered.

I took her hand.

"You're not your pain," I said. "But you are allowed to feel it."

She leaned her head on my shoulder.

"I'm scared I'll forget this moment too."

"Then I'll remember it for both of us."

---

That evening, I walked out to the old bridge alone.

I needed air. Space.

And maybe just a little bit of silence where my own heart could scream.

I sat on the railing and stared down at the water.

My hands shook.

Not from cold.

From the weight.

The weight of loving someone whose memory played hide and seek with every sunset.

The weight of carrying the past alone.

Of knowing that every kiss, every laugh, every look—could vanish from her mind like smoke from a candle.

I whispered into the dark:

"Please. Let her stay. Just one more day. Just one more night. Just… let her remember something. Anything."

A bird flew across the water.

No answer came.

Only wind.

Only silence.

Only me.

---

When I came back, I found her listening to the tape recorder.

Again and again.

"Hey, Spring. It's me…"

She played it on repeat, like a lifeline.

When she saw me, she pressed pause.

"Do I always forget?"

"Not always," I said.

"But enough?"

"…Yeah."

She nodded.

Then looked down.

"Do you ever get tired?"

"Yes."

"Do you want to leave?"

I stepped closer.

"No."

She looked up at me, fragile and terrified.

"Why not?"

"Because you're worth staying for."

---

That night, she wrote something new in the notebook.

Just one sentence:

> "Even if I forget you, please remember me enough for both of us."

Then she handed me the pen.

And I wrote underneath:

> "Even if you forget me, I'll love you like you never did."

She stared at the words.

Then kissed the page.

---

She fell asleep early that night.

But I stayed awake, watching over her.

And for the first time, I let myself cry without hiding it.

Because sometimes love is not loud.

Sometimes it's quiet. Heavy. Cracked.

And still, it stays.

Still, it waits.

Still, it hopes.

---

Quote from Spring (Chapter 15):

"I want to believe her. The girl who wrote that. I want to be her."

Quote from the Protagonist (Chapter 15):

"Some days I feel like a lighthouse—still, blinking in the dark, hoping she finds me again."