Day 48.
She pointed up and asked:
"What's that color called again?"
I looked up too.
Blue.Endless.Warm.
"Sky," I said.
She tilted her head.
"I feel like I used to love it."
"You did."
We sat on a park bench.
The wind brushed through her short hair, and she closed her eyes like she was trying to remember how wind was supposed to feel.
"It smells… soft."
"That's spring," I said.
She nodded slowly.
"I'm going to forget that too, aren't I?"
I didn't lie.
I couldn't.
"Maybe."
"Then promise me something," she whispered.
"When I forget the sky—will you paint it for me?"
Day 47.
She forgot how to use the sink.
Turned the wrong knob.Dropped a cup.
Stared at the water like it was alien.
"I'm not scared," she said."Just… tired."
I took her hand.
"You don't have to remember how to live.""I'll live with you. One step at a time."
We started using post-it notes for everything.
This is your toothbrush.
Your favorite mug.
Your window faces the east.
The sky turns orange at 5:32 PM.
She stuck one on my forehead.
"This boy loves you."
She didn't say anything after.
But she smiled.
Day 46.
I created a fake sky.
Paper taped to the ceiling.Painted clouds.Glow stars.
I brought her inside.
Turned off the lights.
She looked up and gasped.
"It's beautiful."
"It's not real," I said.
She leaned her head on my shoulder.
"Neither am I anymore."
But she smiled like it was enough.
And for that night,the world stayed whole a little longer.
In her notebook, I wrote:
"Day 46.She forgot the sky."
"So I gave her a new one—because no one should forget how hope feels when it hangs above you."