Day 56.
She didn't remember me again today.
But she waited at the school gate.
When I approached,she looked at me carefully—not with recognition,but with something else.
"You're always there," she said softly.
Not a question.Not a statement.Just a quiet truth.
We walked in silence for a while.
The streets were golden with sunset.Our shadows long and thin.
Then she stopped suddenly.
Turned to me.
"I don't know your name," she said."I don't know why I feel safe with you.""But… if it's okay… can I keep walking with you anyway?"
I didn't speak.
I took her hand.
She didn't flinch.
And we kept walking.
Later, we sat under the streetlight outside her home.
She rested her head on my shoulder again.
"Sometimes," she whispered,"I feel like there's a part of me that remembers,even if my mind doesn't."
"Maybe it's in my heart.Or my bones.Or in the way you say my name."
I didn't ask for more.
I didn't need her to say she remembered me.
Because she stayed.
Because she wanted me near,even when she couldn't say why.
That night, in her notebook, I wrote:
"Day 56.She forgot my name."
"But she asked me to stay."
"And that's more than I ever hoped for."
Day 55.
She touched my face gently.
As if trying to memorize it with her fingertips.
"You feel familiar," she said.
I smiled.
"I should.""I'm the boy who's been falling in love with you—every day—for 45 days straight."
She laughed.Light.Real.
"Then maybe I've been falling too," she said."I just didn't know your name."