Day 3.
She didn't recognize her room.
She pointed at the desk and asked—
"Is this mine?"
She opened a drawer filled with sketches she once made.Touched each one like a stranger seeing them for the first time.
"I must've liked to draw," she said,"but I don't know what these mean."
I told her:
"They meant everything."
She smiled at me.
A soft, distant smile.The kind you give to someone who looks familiar—but not quite safe.
Day 2.
She couldn't remember how to get home.
We stood outside the school gates.And she turned to me, eyes filled with fog.
"Where… am I supposed to go now?"
I didn't answer.
I just held her hand and walked with her.
Step by step.
Like leading someone out of a dream.
She didn't ask who I was that day.
But she held my sleeve the whole way.
And somehow,that hurt more.
Day 1.
She didn't know her name.
I said "Aoi"and she looked up.
"Is that… mine?"
I nodded.
She said it softly.Testing it in her mouth.As if it belonged to someone else.
I showed her our notebook.
All the notes.The words.The confessions.
She flipped through it slowly.
Then asked:
"Was I… a good person?"
I choked back tears.
"You still are."
That night, I sat by her bedand wrote the last line I could bear:
"Day 1.She's almost gone."
"But she's still here,somewhere beneath the silence."
"And tomorrow…"
"Tomorrow is Day 0."