Day 94.
"I'll walk you home."
Those were the first real words Ren said to me after the beach.He didn't ask.He just picked up his umbrella and started walking.
I followed him.
Our footsteps on wet pavement were the only sound between us.But somehow… it wasn't uncomfortable.
It was enough.
When we reached my gate, I turned to him and smiled.
"Thank you."
He didn't smile back.Not because he was cold—but because he didn't know how to anymore.
Instead, he looked at the sky.
"It's gonna rain again tomorrow."
I nodded.
"Then we'll walk again."
Day 93.
We met at the school rooftop.
No one ever came up there except the two of us.It felt like our own little world—one the rest of the city had forgotten.
I brought two melon breads.He brought two cans of coffee.
We didn't talk much.Sometimes we didn't need to.
But today, I asked him something I hadn't dared to before.
"Do you think memories make a person who they are?"
He didn't answer immediately.
Then—
"I think… the ones that matter do."
Day 92.
We played cards in the library during lunch.
Ren cheated.Blatantly.And he still lost.
"I forgot how bad you were at this," I laughed.
"Maybe you just forgot how good I am at losing on purpose," he said, smiling faintly.
For the first time,he looked like the boy I remembered.Or maybe… the boy I wanted to remember.
Day 91.
He handed me a small box.
Inside was a tiny music box shaped like a seashell.
"When I heard it, I thought of you," he said.
I wound it gently.A soft lullaby filled the air—sad, fragile, beautiful.
Just like the days we had left.
"If you ever forget me," he said, "play this."
I looked at him.
"And what if I forget how to wind it?"
He paused.
"Then I'll come and do it for you."
Day 90.
I couldn't remember my math teacher's name.
I laughed it off.
But when Ren walked me home that evening,he noticed I was quiet.
"Are you scared?" he asked.
I looked at him.
"…Yes."
He didn't say it would be okay.He didn't lie to me.He just reached outand held my handuntil we reached my door.
That night, I wrote in my notebook:
"We made a promise today.To make at least one memory every day.A small one.A sweet one.Something I can carry, even if I don't remember it later."
"He's writing them down too.In his own notebook.For me."