Chapter 5
If You Ever Remember Me
She didn't remember me again.
I knew it the moment she looked at me—too politely, like I was a stranger offering directions, not someone who knew how cold her fingers got in the wind or the way her eyes fluttered when she tried to hold back a yawn.
She was back under the streetlamp. Same spot. Same time.
But her memory had stayed home.
Still, I sat beside her like I always did.
She didn't ask my name. Not tonight. Maybe she was too tired. Or maybe forgetting had finally stopped being surprising.
I handed her my jacket without a word.
She took it, gently, without asking why.
We sat in the silence for a long time. Just two people pretending the world wasn't moving on without them.
Then she said quietly, "Have we done this before?"
I nodded. "Yeah."
She looked down at her hands in the sleeves of my coat. "Was it nice?"
I smiled a little. "Yeah. It was."
She didn't say anything after that.
Just breathed.
She always breathed quietly, like she was scared to disturb the air.
---
A car passed in the distance. Leaves scraped the sidewalk like whispers no one wanted to hear.
After a while, she leaned her head on her knees again and said,
"Sometimes I dream of things I don't remember living. People I don't know. Places I've never been. But they feel like mine. Like I lost them somewhere."
I looked at her.
"Maybe dreams are where your memories go to hide," I said.
She smiled faintly. "Then I hope I'm kind to you when I'm asleep."
That one hit me harder than it should have.
I swallowed. "You are."
---
We started walking again—slow, unhurried. No destination.
Sometimes she talked. Sometimes she didn't.
But she always looked at me like I was almost familiar.
And I never told her who I was. Not anymore.
I just waited. Hoped.
She stopped in front of a closed bakery. Glass windows reflecting nothing but us.
"I think I've been here before," she said.
"You have."
She touched the window with her fingertip, like it might open something.
"I don't remember what I ordered," she whispered.
"You said the cake looked lonely."
She smiled a little. "Sounds like something I'd say."
"It was chocolate. You said it reminded you of birthdays that didn't feel like yours."
She nodded slowly. "Yeah. That feels right."
She looked over at me and tilted her head.
"You're really good at remembering me."
I shrugged. "Someone has to."
---
We sat on a bench this time. Under a broken streetlight where the dark felt a little heavier.
She leaned back, exhaled like she'd been carrying the whole day on her chest.
Then, without looking at me, she asked,
"Do you ever get tired of starting over?"
I didn't answer right away.
But then I said it slowly, quietly, honestly:
"Yeah. But I get more tired imagining a world where I don't try."
She looked at me for a long moment.
And then, with barely any voice, she said,
"If you ever remember me… I hope it's on a night like this."
I almost broke.
---
Later, as we walked again, she stopped suddenly.
"I think I know something."
"What is it?"
She pointed at a tree. "That branch. It broke last time, didn't it?"
I looked.
It had. Two nights ago, in the wind. We'd both noticed. She said it looked like an arm trying to wave goodbye.
"You remembered?" I asked, heart leaping.
But she shook her head.
"No. It just felt like I should."
I smiled, even though it wasn't really a memory.
Sometimes feelings remember before thoughts do.
---
Before we parted, I walked her back to the streetlamp.
She hesitated. Looked up at it like she was trying to stitch the moment into her soul.
Then she turned to me.
"I'm sorry I forget you."
I blinked.
Then I said what I hadn't said yet.
"My name's—"
She cut me off gently. "Don't tell me."
I looked at her, confused.
She smiled, soft but sad. "I want to remember on my own. If I can. Just once. I want it to be mine."
I nodded slowly.
And she said, "But if I don't… will you still come back?"
"Always," I said.
Then she reached out—not to hold my hand, not to hug, not to kiss. Just to place her palm against my chest. Right where my heart was.
"I think it remembers you," she said. "Even if I don't."
---
I walked home slower than usual.
The air felt heavier than the jacket I'd left with her.
And I knew tomorrow, it might start all over again.
She might not know me.
She might sit under that light like she's never met me in her life.
But I'd go.
I'd still walk that same path.
Still offer my coat.
Still listen to her talk about dreams and broken branches and cakes that felt lonely.
Because love isn't just about being remembered.
It's about remembering for two