Day 9.
She didn't smile today.
Not once.
Not when I told her stories about the time she wore mismatched shoes to school.
Not when I showed her the old drawing she made of us as animals—me as a raccoon, her as a fox.
Not even when I whispered her namelike a prayer I refused to stop saying.
She just stared.Quiet.Still.
Like the world was playing behind her eyes,but she no longer had the remote to press play.
Day 8.
She sat at the window again.
Didn't look out.Didn't ask about the sky.
She just traced the lines in the wood with her finger.
I knelt beside her and asked:
"Do you want to hear a story?"
She didn't speak.
But she nodded.
So I told her—
The story of a girl who forgot everything.And a boy who remembered enough for both.
I didn't say their names.
But her eyes watered.
And she whispered:
"I think… I know that story."
Day 7.
She forgot how to laugh.
I told the same joke three times.
Nothing.
Then I asked her:
"Do you remember how to smile?"
She tried.
Her lips moved.
But they didn't lift.
She grabbed my wrist suddenly.
Fingers weak but desperate.
"If I disappear completely…promise me you won't stay frozen in this version of me."
"Promise me you'll keep living—even when I don't remember how."
I couldn't say yes.
So I kissed her handand nodded.
Because sometimes love means lying softly.
That night I wrote:
"Day 7.She forgot how to smile."
"So I smiled for both of us.Until my face hurt.Until my heart cracked."