Day 29.
I brought a notebook to her door.
Not hers.Mine.
Inside it, I wrote everything.Our first meeting.Her laugh on rainy days.The way she used to hum when nervous.The time she called me "her safe place."
Every detail.
Every page.
All of her.
All of us.
When she opened the door, she stared at me like I was just a delivery boy.
Maybe I was.
Delivering the only thing that still mattered.
"This is for you," I said.
She took the notebook cautiously.
"What is it?"
"Something that used to belong to you.But now it belongs to me.So I'm giving it back."
She looked confused.
But she didn't close the door.
She opened to the first page.
Read the first line:
"This is everything you forgot—so I'll remember it for you."
Day 28.
She didn't say anything.
But I saw her reading.
She sat on the porch.Notebook in her lap.Hands shaking.
Her eyes didn't blink for minutes at a time.
She reached the page where I wrote:
"You once kissed me and said,'This feels like forever, even if it's not.'"
She touched the page.
Traced the words.
Then whispered something.
I wasn't close enough to hear.
But her lips moved in the shape of my name.
Day 27.
She asked me:
"Did I really say all these things?"
I nodded.
"They're your words.I just… borrowed them for a while."
She smiled.
"Then I guess… you've been carrying me."
"Every day," I said."Even when you stopped recognizing me—I never put you down."
That night, I wrote in her notebook again.
Just one line.
"Day 27.She read the story of us—and maybe, just maybe, she felt something again."
Day 26.
She didn't ask who I was today.
She sat beside me without a word.Notebook on her lap.
Then handed it to me.
She had written a single sentence:
"Even if I don't remember you,thank you for never forgetting me."