Chapter 3: like It Was the First Time
We didn't talk much at first.
Just walked. Quietly.
Our steps moved in rhythm, but not quite together. There was a space between us—not wide, just enough to make me wonder if she was really walking with me or just walking because it felt like something to do.
I kept looking over at her.
Same hoodie. Same way her sleeves swallowed her hands. Headphones still around her neck like she forgot they were there. She wasn't looking at me. Mostly just ahead, or down at the ground. Once or twice she kicked at a rock or traced a line in the sidewalk with her shoe.
I didn't know what to say. Didn't know if I should try to say anything at all.
Then, without looking at me, she said,
"Do I seem… different today?"
Her voice was soft. Almost like she was asking the night, not me.
"Different how?" I asked.
She gave a half-shrug. "I don't know. Just... different. Some days I feel quieter. Some days I say things I don't remember saying. People tell me I was acting weird, or that I laughed more yesterday, or I seemed more distant. I guess I just wonder what kind of me people are expecting."
I didn't respond right away. I didn't want to say the wrong thing.
"You seem the same to me," I said finally.
She glanced at me. "Even though I didn't recognize you?"
"Yeah."
She smiled a little, but it didn't last.
"You must think I'm strange."
"No," I said. "I think you're… kind of incredible."
That made her laugh under her breath, like she didn't believe it. "You barely know me."
"I don't need to know everything," I said. "I just know I wanted to see you again."
She didn't say anything for a while after that. I thought maybe I'd said too much. But then she asked quietly,
"Most people leave, don't they?"
"Why do you say that?"
"They do. When they find out. About my memory. Some try to hide how uncomfortable they get. Others just stop showing up. I don't blame them."
"I'm still here."
"Yeah. You are."
We walked past a row of dark houses. One still had a porch light on. The others were already sleeping.
Spring slowed her pace a bit. Her hands were in her pockets now. Her hair fell over her face in a messy curtain, and she didn't bother to fix it.
"Do you ever feel like you're chasing something you forgot the name of?" she asked.
I thought about that.
"All the time."
She looked at me again then. Really looked. And for a second, it was like something flickered behind her eyes. Like maybe, maybe she remembered the way I smiled at her last night. The way we walked without needing to fill the space with noise. The way it all somehow felt more real than anything else.
But she looked away just as quickly.
"Sorry," she said. "Sometimes I just say weird things."
"I like your weird things."
We turned the corner toward the bridge.
I always liked this part of the walk. The trees thinned out, and the road opened up a little more. The moonlight hit the sidewalk just right, like a soft lamp had been left on for us.
When we reached the bridge, she leaned on the railing like she'd done it a thousand times. Maybe she had. Maybe she hadn't. I didn't ask.
She stared down at the dark water below. It barely moved. Just a faint ripple here and there. Like the night was breathing, but not deeply.
"I used to come here by myself," she said.
"Before everything?"
"Before I knew how to explain it to anyone. Before I even really understood it. It felt like the only place where time didn't matter. Where forgetting wasn't... wrong."
I leaned next to her, resting my arms on the cool metal.
She went quiet for a bit. Then, without looking at me, she said,
"Do you think people can fall in love if they forget each other every day?"
I turned to her. "Why are you asking that?"
She shrugged. "I don't know. Just wondering."
"Yeah," I said. "I think they can."
She looked over again. This time, she held my gaze longer.
There was a question in her eyes. I didn't know the answer to it, but I wanted to. I really wanted to.
"You believe in that kind of thing?" she asked.
"Not before. But maybe I do now."
We stood there in silence. Not awkward. Just quiet. Comfortable in the way that only happens when words start to feel too small for the moment.
She rested her chin on her arms and looked back out at the water.
"I hope I remember this," she said softly. "Even if just the feeling of it."
"I'll remember enough for both of us," I told her.
She didn't reply. But after a few moments, she leaned her shoulder a little closer to mine. Barely. Just enough.
And I knew.
Even if tomorrow she looked at me with that same blank expression…
Even if she asked me who I was all over again…
Even if every night felt like starting from zero—
I'd still come back.
Because something about her made the whole world feel less cold.
Less lonely.
Less like I was walking for no reason.
And if this was what it meant to be with her — to meet again and again, always for the first time — then I'd meet her as many times as it took.
Every night.
Under the same light.
With the same hope.