Day 38.
She was humming softly while folding paper cranes.
Not for any reason.
She just said—
"It feels like something I used to do."
She didn't notice me watching.
Didn't feel the way my heart ached watching her forget the hands that once taught her to fold them.
My hands.
That night, I couldn't sleep.
I looked at the ceiling.At the fake sky I had once painted for her.
And I whispered—
"What if I'm just a ghost in your story now?"
A ghost of a boywho once mattered.A shadow who waitsby the door you'll never open again.
Day 37.
She smiled at a photo today.One I'd taken of us long ago.
She pointed to me.
"He looks kind."
I nodded.
"He is."
She didn't ask who he was.
And I didn't offer it.
Because maybe, for today,it was enough that she thought I was kind.
Even as a stranger.
Day 36.
I asked myself:Why am I still here?
Because love?Because hope?
Or because I'm afraid that if I leave,there won't be anyone left who remembers her true self?
Maybe I'm not trying to keep her from forgetting me.
Maybe I'm trying to keep me from forgetting her.
I opened her notebook.
Wrote only one thing:
"Day 36.I don't know who I am in your story anymore."
"But I'll stay anyway.Even if I'm only the shadow that never left."
Day 35.
She asked me what my favorite memory was.
Not hers.
Mine.
I froze.Then said—
"A day when we sat in silence,and your head was on my shoulder,and we didn't need to say anything."
She smiled.
"That sounds peaceful."
Then added quietly—
"I hope I was someone who gave peace."
And I looked her in the eye and said—
"You still are."