quiverycacti

You won’t remember how it starts.

Maybe it was a boy in a room.
Maybe it was a letter on a table.
Maybe it was you.

You’ll think you know what’s happening. You’ll follow the clues. Try to piece together the names, the faces, the places that seem just a little off, the chapters that aren't linear. You’ll swear something important just happened a few pages ago—until it’s gone.

But don’t worry.

You’re not supposed to understand.
You’re not supposed to hold on.
You’re just supposed to read.

And when the story ends—if it ends—
you will forget it.

That’s the only way it works.

But please, don't forget me.

You Will Forget This Story

They were walking beside a shallow river that glowed pale blue beneath the surface. It made no sound. The water moved, but only when they looked away from it.

The girl walked beside him, barefoot now. She carried her red shoes in one hand like they were delicate things she didn't want to ruin. Her other hand swung freely, sometimes brushing his.

But the silence didn't feel heavy. It felt like something old friends could sit inside.

He skipped a stone. It bounced once, then vanished in the air above the river instead of hitting the water.

She laughed. "You still throw like that."

"Like you're trying to aim for something that isn't there."

He smirked. "What makes you think it's not there?"

She grinned back, walking ahead a little. "Because you miss every time."

They sat on a slope overlooking the glowing river. Grass hummed faintly beneath them, like it had a heartbeat too.

She plucked a blade and made a whistling sound with it. He tried, failed, tried again, and failed more dramatically.

She fell onto her back in the grass, laughing.

"Do you ever get tired of this place?" he asked.

She looked up at the sky. "Sometimes. But it's not about the place."

She didn't answer. Just looked at him and smiled like she had all the time in the world to explain it—later.

They told jokes. The same ones. Over and over. They both laughed anyway.

He asked her if she remembered that dream with the floating staircase and the talking fox. She said, "You always make up that dream. I don't think it ever happened."

He asked her how she remembered him.

She said, "You were kind. You were always kind, even when you didn't know how to be."

They sat in the light of the not-quite-sunset and let the world be gentle for a while.

Later, when the breeze came back, she slipped her shoes back on.

Something nagged at the edge of his thoughts. A detail out of place.

The bottom edge—just above her ankles—was scorched. Burnt black. Edges curled in.

The glow of the river faded just slightly.

-Somewhere Soft