Ethan sat on the park bench where he and Emily had spent countless evenings. The air was heavy with the scent of blooming jasmine—the same fragrance she loved. He closed his eyes, and the memories came rushing in, uninvited yet comforting.
He remembered her laughter, light and unrestrained, echoing in this very park as they fed stray dogs together. He remembered her habit of stealing French fries from his plate, claiming she didn’t want any. He remembered the way she hummed her favorite songs while staring at the sunset.
But now, all he had were memories.
It had been two years since she had left—an illness that came like a thief in the night, robbing her of breath, robbing him of her presence. He had tried to be strong, to fill his life with work and distractions, but the silence of his apartment was too loud. Every corner whispered her name. Every familiar place felt hollow.
Today was her birthday. Ethan held the small leather-bound journal she had gifted him on his own birthday years ago. On the first page, her handwriting stared back at him: “Fill this with all our stories.”
He never did.
Now, he wished he had written everything—the jokes, the fights, the late-night walks, the dreams they once painted in the air. Because now, her voice was fading in his mind. Even her face sometimes blurred when he tried too hard to remember. And that was the cruelest part—how time not only took her away but also tried to erase the colors she left behind.
A child’s laughter pulled him out of his thoughts. A little girl ran past him, holding her father’s hand. Ethan smiled faintly. Life went on, even when hearts broke.
He stood up, clutching the journal. “I’ll write now,” he whispered to himself. “I’ll fill this for you, Emily. So you never fade.”
As he walked home, he realized that this was the sad truth of life: the person who gave you memories becomes a memory one day. But maybe, if he wrote enough, if he remembered hard enough, she could live a little longer in his words.
And perhaps that was the only way to heal—not by letting go, but by carrying the pieces forward.