Day 34.
She laughed at something I said.Something small.Something stupid.
And for one second—it felt like nothing had changed.
Like the girl before me remembered everything.Like I wasn't carrying all the weight alone.
But then she stopped.
Looked at me.
And asked:
"Have we… met before?"
I smiled.Because it was easier than crying.
"No," I said."We haven't."
Day 33.
I didn't go to her house.
I wandered the city instead.Let my feet take me anywhere but there.
Not because I didn't want to see her.
But because I wanted—just once—to know what it felt like not to ache.
Just one hourwithout the silence of being forgotten.
Day 32.
I sat alone in the classroom we once shared.
Her seat was empty now.She'd stopped coming to school.
Too many names.Too many strangers.Too many things she couldn't hold anymore.
And I whispered into that empty space:
"Please let me forget you too."
But memory isn't mercy.
It doesn't fade just because we ask it to.
Love leaves bruises long after the wound has closed.
And I—I remember everything.
Day 31.
She called me "sir" today.
Not in sarcasm.
Just in distance.
"Thank you for helping me cross the street, sir."
Then walked away.
And I stood there.
Unmoving.Unseen.
That night, I didn't write in her notebook.
I wrote in mine.
"Day 31.She doesn't know I exist."
"But I still build my days around her smile."
"I still remember the weight of her hand in mine."
"And I still whisper her name—when no one's listening."
Day 30.
Only 30 days left.
I counted them in my breath.
And I promised myself—
If she forgets everything…
I will still remember enough for both of us.
Even if it breaks me.