Chapter 7: Something Stayed
We didn't talk much that night.
But it wasn't the kind of silence that hurts.
It was the kind that wraps around two people gently — like a blanket that doesn't ask questions.
We walked slow. Side by side. Her hand in mine again.
And this time, she didn't let go.
She didn't ask my name.
She didn't ask why I knew how many steps it took to get to the river.
She didn't ask how I knew she hated the smell of smoke from the bakery's back door.
She just… looked at me.
Like I belonged in the picture.
Like I wasn't a stranger anymore.
---
We stopped near the edge of the river.
The water moved slow tonight — like it didn't want to forget either.
She leaned against the railing and closed her eyes. Let the wind touch her face. I stayed beside her, quiet.
Then she whispered, "I had a dream last night."
I looked at her. "Yeah?"
She nodded. "We were walking. Just like this. Same shoes. Same sky. But you were crying."
My heart stopped.
"I didn't know why," she said. "But even in the dream, I remember wanting to hold your hand."
"You did," I said.
She turned her head slowly, eyes soft and far away.
"Was it real?"
I nodded.
She didn't cry. But she looked like someone who could've. Like someone who knew what it meant to break quietly.
"I'm scared of remembering," she whispered. "But I'm more scared of forgetting you."
"You already remembered something," I told her. "Your heart did, even if your head didn't."
---
We sat on a bench by the river. Same one we found weeks ago. The one with the initials carved into the back.
I'd traced those letters with my fingers every night since. She never noticed.
Until tonight.
She reached behind her, ran her hand across the wood.
"Did we do this?"
"No," I said. "But we always sit here."
She smiled, just a little. "Then maybe they were like us."
---
I looked at her for a long time.
Not because I was waiting for her to speak.
But because I was terrified that this would be the last night she knew me.
That tomorrow, she'd go back to the streetlamp. Sit there with her headphones. Look at me like I was just another person passing by.
I'd lived through that already.
Too many times.
But this time… I couldn't take it.
So I said it. Finally.
"Spring… I love you."
She didn't flinch.
She didn't pull her hand away.
She just looked at me.
And her lips parted like they wanted to say something, but her voice didn't come.
Then, finally:
"I think I've always loved you. Even if I didn't know it."
---
We stayed there for a long time.
And when she fell asleep with her head on my shoulder, I didn't move.
Not for an hour.
Not even when it started to rain lightly. I let it fall on us like it was washing the fear away.
And I prayed — not out loud, not to anything in particular — just into the night.
Let her remember this.
Please.
Let something stay.
---
We walked back in silence.
Our fingers locked, soaked and freezing.
But neither of us cared.
The streetlamp came into view again.
Her spot.
Her anchor.
She stopped beneath it. Looked up. Took a deep breath.
"I hate this place," she said suddenly.
I looked at her, surprised.
"Why?"
"Because it always feels like the beginning."
"And you want something to feel like the middle?"
She nodded.
"I want something to feel like home."
I reached out and held her cheeks in my palms.
"This can be the middle," I said. "If you want it to be."
She leaned forward.
Pressed her forehead against mine.
And whispered:
"Then don't let me forget."
"I won't," I whispered back.
Then she kissed me.
Soft. Shy. Slow.
And for the first time — she didn't look confused afterward.
She looked calm.
Like the storm in her had quieted.
---
She pulled back and whispered:
"Can I ask something?"
"Anything."
"If I forget again tomorrow…" she swallowed. "Can you still love me like you did tonight?"
I took a breath.
And I answered her honestly.
"I don't think I know how to stop."
She smiled with tears in her eyes.
Then turned, walked to the streetlamp.
Sat down again like always.
But this time —
When I began to walk away…
She called out:
"…Don't forget me, okay?"
I turned back.
She was hugging her knees.
Head down.
Like a child clinging to a memory they couldn't name.
"I won't," I said.
And I meant it.
Because even if she forgot every word, every moment —
I would carry it for both of us.
Forever.