“Will you remember me?” she asked softly after she stopped giggling.
That was the first time she asked; I thought it was a joke. We were twenty-one, sprawled in her tiny apartment. She was playing with her hair in one hand and doodling aimlessly in her book with the other.
“No,” I replied in the most deadpan way possible, just as a pillow came flying toward my face. I caught it mid-air, laughing.
“Remember you?” I grinned like it was the most ridiculous thing she could’ve said, “What do you mean?”
“Me, us, this,” she said, gesturing to the room, the night, how we both laid next to each other and felt invincible and tasted forever in that moment. “When you are old and boring, promise me you will remember this.”
I shook my head, still smiling. “You are the favourite chapter of my life; how could I forget?” I raised my pinky finger, sealing the promise.
She intertwined hers with mine and smiled, her eyes softening. “I think I would stay in this moment forever if I could. I want to tattoo this day, this summer, every single day spent with you in my head and never forget it. Do you think we would make a good story?”
“We’d make the best story,” I said, puffing my chest out dramatically. “You’d be the annoying character everyone hates, and I’d be the quirky, cool, awesome character everyone instantly loves.”
She threw a pencil this time. I was too slow, and it hit me square on the forehead.
“No,” she said with mock authority, “I’d be the cool girl boss femme fatale character, and you’d be the sidekick who’s obsessed and completely in love with me.”
I was supposed to laugh this off. And I usually would. But she was right. I would just blindly follow her anywhere she goes. She could ask for a single flower, and I would get her a garden.
“And I would ace my role,” I added quietly, my voice steady. “We wouldn’t just be a story—we’d be our story. The kind that’s long and sticks, even when we’re wrinkly and gross.”
I wiggled my fingers to her face, making her laugh. It was my favourite sound in the whole world.
***
I watched her now, years later, sitting by the window, her finger tracing patterns in the air like she was drawing invisible shapes. She looked peaceful but distant, as though she were in the backseat of her own life.
“Will you remember?” she had asked all those years ago.
“I don’t remember,” she says now hesitantly, pulling me back to the present. “I don’t remember what I was supposed to do next.”
“That’s okay,” I said, trying to keep my tone soft. “You were just making tea.”
“One extra sugar for you and one normal one for me because I am the only sane person here,” she said with a grin, setting down both of our teas.
“I’m sorry if I like some sweetness in my life. Sue me,” I teased, nudging her with my elbow. “Plus, this is a big moment. You finally got it right. Maybe one day you’ll remember without me reminding you.”
She rolled her eyes dramatically. “One day? I’ll never forget it again. Consider it etched into my brain.”
“Do you like extra sugar in your tea?” She asked, looking at me now, her brows furrowed like she was unsure.
“Yeah,” I replied, my chest tightening. “Just the way you always make it.”
She nodded but didn’t seem convinced. I watched her as she focused on making our drink with slightly trembling hands.
***
Later, I found her in the living room, staring at a picture on the mantle. She smiled at the people in the picture but did not seem to recognise them.
“Do you know who these people are?” she asked with a tone of uncertainty.
A tiny part of my heart ached. I walked over slowly, standing beside her, as I glanced at the picture.
It was the summer of 2005. We went to the farmer’s market for the first time together, picking out flowers and fresh vegetables and laughing at how out of place we looked among the regulars. In one of the stands, we found an outrageously oversized pumpkin. We joked about making only pumpkin dishes for the rest of the month. The stall owner helped take our picture, and the both of us pretended it was a maternity shoot with her cradling the pumpkin in front of her belly and me holding it from behind her.
“This is us,” I said softly, trying to keep my composure. “From a long time ago.”
She blinked, staring at the photo for a long moment before turning away and catching herself in the nearby mirror. She reached up, touching her face gently like she couldn’t believe it was her. To me, she looked the same—beautiful, as always.
It was in the evening when she wandered the house and called out my name loudly. She was in the middle of the hallway, scanning the walls like she was somewhere unknown.
“Whose house are we staying in?” she asked, almost fearful.
I have reminded her about things a million times, but this one always hurts more. “This is our house.”
She looked at me, puzzled.
We were 34 when we bought the house, and neither of us could contain our excitement and fear. It had taken nearly a year of saving, searching, and vetoing houses because “the vibes weren’t right.” The day we signed the papers, she dragged me to the empty living room, and we danced around picturing the life we were going to build together.
“This is ours,” she had said, beaming after we brought in our last box. “Our future, right here.”
I repeated, “Yeah. This is ours. We made it together.”
“Oh,” was all she said.
***
The day went by as usual. I reminded her of a few things, and the Post-its scattered around the house reminded her of the rest.
I was washing the dishes after dinner when she stood beside me. She had been quiet for a long time, and I watched her closely, waiting for something to shift.
“Who are you?” she asked.
The world seemed to freeze. I stopped rinsing the plate. The silence stretched between us, heavy and unbearable. My chest tightened; I didn’t know how to answer her.
I had always known this day would come. I had dreamt about it and dreaded it. But in every nightmare, I had never found the right words. And now, standing here, I was as lost as I had feared I’d be.
Just as I was about to speak, she laughed, a soft, airy sound. “I’m kidding,” she said, her eyes twinkling. “You should’ve seen your face. I haven’t forgotten that much—at least not yet.”
I let out a shaky breath, feeling the weight lift for a moment, but only slightly because I knew this wouldn’t be a joke someday.
“That’s the worst joke you’ve ever made,” I said, shaking my head as she reached for me. “And you’ve made plenty of bad ones.”
She chuckled, but her face grew serious again. She held my hand, squeezing it gently. “Promise me…” she whispered, her voice trembling. “Promise me you won’t let me forget you. I can forget everything else—my name, where we live—but not you. I couldn’t bear that. I don’t remember how my life was before you; I don’t even remember how we met, but right now, I remember how much I love you and how much you’ve loved me.”
“And it’s not fair,” she continued, her voice cracking. “It’s not fair that my brain is betraying me, making me forget the only thing that’s ever made sense—us. But you need to know, every second with you has been worth remembering, even if I can’t hold onto it.”
My chest was aching with the weight of her words. She was looking at me with such intensity, as though trying to imprint this moment in her mind, desperate to hold on to what was slipping away.
“I promise,” I whispered, my voice barely steady. “I’ll be here, even when you don’t remember. I’ll remind you.”
“What about you?” she asked, turning her slightly.
“What about me?”
“I haven’t been the same person you fell in love with for a while. It must be hard to remember who I was before all this, isn’t it?” She looked scared for the answer.
Truth be told, I realised something—the memories didn’t matter, not as much as I thought they would. It wasn’t the shared moments that made me love her, but her. Her spirit, her laughter, her smile. She was still here, even if her memories weren’t. And that would always be enough for me to remember her.
I must have been lost in thought for too long because her face grew anxious.
“Will you remember me?” She pleaded, her voice breaking.
