I wasn't looking for anything.
Just grabbing my literature book from the classroom we'd used earlier. Everyone had gone home. The room was quiet — still glowing with that golden, late-afternoon light.
That's when I saw it.
A black leather sketchbook, sitting beneath Damien's desk. Slightly worn. Familiar.
Curious, I bent down and picked it up. It felt heavier than I expected.
Something about it made my chest tighten.
I hesitated — but then my fingers flipped open the cover.
And there I was.
Page after page.
Sketch after sketch.
Me.
Laughing. Smiling. Sitting on the school bench. Walking through the garden. Reading a book. Blushing. Looking at… him.
The last sketch was me holding his hand — drawn in soft pencil shading, my face tilted up at him with the gentlest smile.
My hand covered my mouth as the tears welled up.
He… he drew me.
Even when I couldn't remember him.
Even when I pushed him away.
He remembered everything.
Suddenly, my vision blurred. A flash —
Sitting beside him as he sketched me.
Him smiling shyly.
Me laughing, brushing my hair from my eyes.
"Draw me with a prettier nose," I had teased.
He had grinned, "It's already perfect."
My knees gave out, and I sat on the floor.
I was remembering. Not just pieces. Feelings.
I clutched the sketchbook to my chest.
And then I heard footsteps. I quickly wiped my face — but it was too late.
He was standing in the doorway.
Damien.
He froze when he saw what I held.
"You found it," he said softly, walking closer.
I nodded, voice shaking. "Why… why did you keep all these?"
He knelt beside me, his eyes locked on mine. "Because even if you forgot me… I couldn't forget you. Not even for a second."
I looked down at the sketch again. "I don't remember everything," I whispered, "but when I look at these… I feel it. Something real."
His hand reached out, brushing a tear from my cheek.
"I missed you," he said, voice low.
My heart thudded, full and aching. "I think… I missed you too."
Our faces were inches apart. My breath caught.
He whispered, "Can I…?"
I didn't answer.
I leaned in first.
Our lips met softly, like a memory returning home. It wasn't rushed or desperate — it was gentle and full of something sacred.
When we finally pulled away, I was breathless.
"I felt everything," I whispered.
He smiled, forehead resting against mine. "So did I."
And in that moment, memory or not — I knew my heart still remembered him perfectly.
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