Day 12.
She asked me for a new notebook.
A small one.Blank.No lines.
"Why?" I asked.
"I don't know," she replied."But I feel like… I need to leave something behind."
I handed her the book.
She smiled as if it was the most important thing in the world.
And maybe, it was.
Day 11.
She started writing.Quietly.Alone.
She wouldn't let me read it.
But I didn't ask.
Some things are sacred—especially from someone whose memory is breaking,yet still chooses to give.
That evening, she said:
"If I forget everything…do you think the part of me that loved you will still exist?"
I didn't know how to answer.
So I told the truth:
"Love doesn't live in memories.It lives in the space between us."
Day 10.
I found the notebook on my desk.
She'd left it without saying a word.
On the first page:
To the boy with the soft eyes,
I don't know your name anymore.I don't know where we met,or why my heart feels like it's cracked in all the places you touched.
But every time you walk into a room,something in me leans toward you—like a flower following the sun.
If I forget you,please forgive me.
If I call you a stranger,please stay anyway.
Because even if you fade in my mind,you've left your fingerprints on my soul.
And even if my memories are gone—I want you to know that I was happy.
Really, truly happy.
Thank you.
– Someone who once loved you,and maybe still does.
I couldn't move for a long time.
The words didn't just hurt—they healed.
In the most painful way.
That night I wrote in her notebook:
"Day 10.She forgot my name again today."
"But she remembered how to say goodbye."