Day 57.
I knew I couldn't wait anymore.
She was slipping away—not suddenly,not violently,but gently.
Like the tide leaving shore.Like a name fading on old paper.
I'd been holding it in for weeks.My feelings.The words.The ache.
So I told her.
I told her everything.
We were in the library.Late after school.
She was staring at a book she couldn't read anymore.Words swimming.Meaningless.
I knelt beside her and said softly:
"Aoi."
She looked at me, blinking.
"I love you."
Silence.
I felt her breath catch.Not because she remembered—but because she didn't.
And then—
She asked.
"Who… are you?"
The words didn't hit all at once.They slid in like cold water.Slow.Sharp.Final.
I smiled.
Just a little.
"I'm someone who used to mean everything to you."
She looked down at her hands.
"I'm sorry."
I shook my head.
"Don't be."
Because I meant it for me.Not for her.
I said it so I could hear it.So it could exist—even if only for a moment.
Later that night, she handed me her notebook.
"Can you write today for me?" she asked.
I nodded.
And wrote:
"Day 57.I told her I loved her."
"She didn't remember who I was."
"But I will keep loving her anyway."
She fell asleep on the train ride home.Her head on my shoulder.Breathing calm.
I looked out the window,watched the lights pass like ghosts.
And whispered, barely loud enough for anyone to hear:
"I love you.Even if I have to fall in love alone."