chapter 4: The Things She Can't Keep
It was the third night.
Or maybe the fourth. I'd stopped counting.
I didn't even pretend anymore. Didn't tell myself it was just another walk or that I was just getting some air.
It was her.
It was always her now.
I knew I might get there and be a stranger again.
I knew there was a chance she wouldn't remember my face, my voice, or the night before.
But I went anyway.
She was already under the streetlamp when I got there. Sitting on the edge of the curb, one knee pulled close to her chest, the other leg stretched out toward the road like she couldn't decide whether she was staying or leaving.
Same hoodie. Same headphones.
But something was different tonight.
She wasn't waiting. She wasn't looking around or checking her phone.
She was looking straight up at the sky, eyes open wide, as if she was trying to memorize the stars before they disappeared.
I stood there for a second, not saying anything.
Just watching her in the yellow glow.
She looked like someone who had lost something and didn't know what. Like she was waiting to feel the ache of it.
I finally stepped closer.
"Hey," I said softly.
She blinked slowly and turned to me.
For a second, her face was completely blank.
Then her brow knit together slightly. She tilted her head.
"…Do I know you?"
I smiled, but it felt a little crooked.
"No. I'm just… passing by."
She nodded, a little too fast. "Right."
I almost walked away. Almost gave her space like I did that first time.
But she looked back up at the sky and whispered,
"I forget things."
My chest tightened. I sat down beside her, not too close, but close enough for the cold from the pavement to reach both of us.
"I know," I said.
She glanced at me, surprised. "You do?"
"Yeah."
We sat in silence for a long while. Long enough for the night to feel heavy around us.
Then she said, almost like she was confessing it to herself,
"Sometimes it feels like I'm missing a part of me. Like there's a version of me just out of reach, walking the same road but a few steps ahead. And I can never catch up to her."
I looked at her, the curve of her profile lit by the streetlamp.
"That must be hard," I said quietly.
"It's more lonely than hard," she replied. "It's like living in pieces. I keep meeting people who know parts of me I don't remember giving away."
Her voice broke a little at the end.
I wanted to tell her I remembered everything for her — her voice, the way she leaned when she listened, how her eyes softened when the silence settled between us.
But she didn't know me right now.
And maybe that was the hardest part.
She tucked her hands inside her sleeves again. "I wish I could just… keep one thing. Just one memory. Something small. Something mine."
"You can," I said before I could stop myself.
She looked over.
I took a breath. "You can keep this moment. Right here."
She blinked slowly, like she was trying to take a picture of it in her head.
"Describe it to me," she said.
"What?"
"This moment," she said. "Tell me what it is. What you see. What I look like. So maybe, if I forget, I'll find it in your words."
I swallowed.
"Okay."
I looked around, choosing carefully.
"You're sitting under a streetlamp, and the light makes your hair look almost gold. You're wearing a gray hoodie that's too big for you, and your knees are pulled close like you're cold, but not cold enough to go home. You've got these headphones around your neck that probably haven't played music in hours. And you're looking at me like you want to trust me, but you're scared you already have."
She didn't move.
Her eyes glistened a little, but she blinked it away.
"That's beautiful," she whispered.
"It's true."
She looked down at her hands.
"I'm tired," she said softly. "But not sleepy. Just… tired of not knowing who I've been to people."
"You don't have to be anything right now," I said. "Not to me."
She leaned her head on her knee. "Why are you here?"
I didn't answer right away. The truth felt too big and too small at the same time.
"I think," I said slowly, "I just wanted to see you again."
She gave a sad little smile. "Even if I don't remember?"
"Especially if you don't."
She laughed softly, like it hurt. "That's a dangerous kind of kindness."
"I know."
We sat there longer. Not walking. Not rushing. Just… being.
At one point, a breeze passed through, gentle but cold. She shivered, and I instinctively moved closer, but stopped myself before touching her.
"You okay?"
She nodded. "I just get cold fast."
I shrugged off my jacket and held it out. She hesitated.
"It's okay," I said. "You don't have to remember me to borrow warmth."
She took it slowly and pulled it over her shoulders.
"Thank you."
She sat in it like she'd worn it before. Like her body remembered what her mind couldn't.
After a while, she turned to me.
"Can I ask you something?"
"Of course."
"If I forget tomorrow… will you tell me this happened?"
I looked at her.
"I will. As many times as you need."
She smiled faintly. "You'll get tired of that."
"Never."
She turned her gaze back up to the stars. They were faint tonight. Just a few pinpricks in a dark sky.
"I used to write letters to myself," she said. "Little notes. Stick them on the wall. On the mirror. In books. 'You liked this.' 'You cried at this part.' 'Don't forget he made you smile.'"
I didn't say anything. I was afraid if I did, I might cry.
"I stopped," she said. "They started to feel like lies. Or like I was reading about someone else's life."
"But it was your life," I said.
"Maybe. But what's the point of living something if it doesn't stay?"
"It stays," I said, pointing gently to her chest. "Even if it's not clear. Even if it's blurry. It stays in here."
She stared at me like she wanted to believe that.
Like she was trying to.
Then, after a long silence, she whispered,
"I think… I think I know you."
My breath caught.
I didn't move. Didn't speak.
"I don't know your name," she said, "but you feel… familiar. Safe."
"I'm glad," I said, voice barely a whisper.
Then, she asked softly,
"Will you walk with me?"
"Always."
She stood slowly, pulling my jacket tighter around her shoulders, and looked down at me with the quietest hope I'd ever seen in someone's eyes.
So I stood too.
We walked down the road, side by side, no space between us this time. Our arms brushed once, then again. She didn't pull away.
She didn't ask where we were going.
And I didn't tell her that we'd walked this path before.
Because tonight wasn't about what we remembered.
It was about choosing each other again, anyway.
Even if she forgot tomorrow…
Even if I had to start over the next night…
I'd still find her under that same streetlamp.
I'd still offer her my jacket.
I'd still describe the stars to her like they were ours.
Because love, real love, isn't about holding onto someone.
It's about showing up.
Even when they can't.
Especially then.