the next time I forget

Forgetting becomes easier the lonelier you let yourself become. Everything blends into something just under nothing at all. 

But it’s easier that way, she says, it’s simpler that way, she says. Or thinks. There’s no point in saying things that no one will hear. She thinks that too. 

The morning paper that she picks up every day before school says that it’s February 15th today, but she could’ve sworn it was the 8th just yesterday. To most people, the lack of memory that spanned over days at a time would be something that should be alarming, frightening because how could one forget so many incidents that happen in their daily life. 

For her, she blinks it away and folds the packet of papers into the crack of her school bag and steps back onto the sidewalks of long, stretched out, unchanging roads that lead to her school’s entryway. 

And much like the roads, the school is almost unchanging as well. If seasons didn’t exist, her perception of time would be near non-existent and every day would be a reflection of the last. Unchanging, forever. She likes that, she thinks. Maybe. 

In a flash of walking through the hallways to her homeroom class that she cannot remember at all, the bell was ringing at the same time it does every day, and after that came the pouring in of shuffling classmates scurrying to their seats in an untimely manner, getting scolded by the teacher who has come in late too but ignores that. 

Their faces are blurred out, she thinks. Maybe. There doesn’t seem to be a reason for her to look up at them so she doesn’t. It wouldn’t matter anyway; they don’t care to look at her either. 

Before time processes in her mind, the bell is ringing again and her legs are lifting her back up to walk through the push of the hallway to what’s supposed to be her next class. She doesn’t remember what that class was and doesn’t try to at all. Her feet will bring her there anyway, they always do. 

The layout of the classroom for their second period is slightly different, nothing noticeable enough to cause imprint in her memory though. And like usual, as quickly as the class started, it was ending once again at the buzzing of the bell and the shifting of voices growing louder and shoes across the floor that echo in waves, and looking down at the paper she has no recollection of ever owning were scattered notes, a full page of them, in what was supposed to be her handwriting. 

Sometimes she has thoughts, passing, fleeting, thoughts that blend into the passing, fleeting, beats of the wind. They’re always about one thing or another, she supposes, whatever thoughts are normal for someone her age, like the sakura trees that are meant to bloom in the spring, or what homework she has, or what’s for dinner. Except that thought in and of itself flickers so quickly that as soon as she registers it, it’s gone. 

But that’s okay, she thinks, watching the way her shoes tapped along the pathway that lead back home, until the thought is gone again, just like the others. 

She blinks. Time skips. She takes a breath of the air in her apartment. Time is still skipping. She looks around at the empty kitchen and to her hands in the sink that are washing a plate and glass that she can’t remember using. And then she’s in the shower, trails of water catching in pools in the places where her skin dips. It’s warm, she thinks. And then it’s gone. 

The comforters are almost as warm after laying in them for long enough, which she probably has been doing, she doesn’t really know. The whirring of the fan is probably what’s keeping her up at the moment although she’s unsure of what helps her sleep or if she sleeps at all. 

Everything is but a dream to her. And that’s how it will always be, she thinks, until she doesn’t. 

The tree branch outside her window tapped against the glass, once, twice, she was awake. Sun was filling the room and sweat was causing her bangs to stick to her forehead. She doesn’t remember ever getting bangs before. 

Breakfast was cereal accompanied by Sunday cartoons on the couch. She’s almost surprised that she’s aware of what she's eating and watching this morning, and she looks around again, suddenly aware of where she is and how the thoughts piling weren’t immediately disbanding like usual. 

There was a knock at the door and her eyes jumped from item to item across the room until they hit the place that she could swear she’s never seen before. And even stranger, her feet weren’t moving on their own. She’s staring at them, at the socks she’s wearing with small patterns of cartoon cats pasted across the fabric of them. So she moved, on her own, thinking about it and startling herself with that. 

The handle of the door was colder and smoother than she expected it to be, not being familiar with the sensation at all, and at the turning of it followed by the pull of the opening door, stood a boy probably her age, she can’t remember, who she’s never seen before. 

“Kyoko?” The boy was tall, reddish hair with peering eyes that looked at her as if he knew her. 

She expected herself to say something she would forget an instant later, but she didn’t, well, didn’t forget that is. 

“Yes?” Her voice startled her and she thought for a second that it was strange for it to sound like that. And even more startling was that he said her name and she answered. And she knew that that was her name despite never hearing it before. 

“You didn’t stop by to pick up the newspaper today so I got worried that you were sick after being in the rain yesterday, which is why I’m here so I’m sorry if that’s sudden but--” 

“No, that’s okay.” She interrupted him, aware of what she was doing and even more aware of the way his cheeks flushed at her smile. She didn’t know she knew how to smile. “Thanks for checking up on me, Tamaki.” 

No, she doesn’t know this boy, she thinks, actually thinks, the thought not washing away as time spilled onward and he was talking again and handing her the newspaper he had in his hand. 

“Happy birthday, by the way,” his eyes were wandering and his fingers picking at one another, “I’m sorry that you had to get sick on your birthday of all days.” 

“It’s my birthday?” Her eyes fixed themselves on the paper she was holding, April 9th. And then she looked up again, aware of how it was just February yesterday and aware of the way her hands felt, how her forehead was hot and uncomfortable, the way her pajama pants felt against her skin, and the way her heart raced at the sight of the boy in front of her. 

Because today was her birthday. Because April 9th was her birthday and the guy who worked at the newspaper stand was Tamaki, from Class 3, who she had feelings for and who was showing up at her doorstep to wish her a happy birthday. 

Because yesterday she came in the morning with nothing but a short-sleeve shirt on in the pouring rain to get the paper because she wanted to see him. Because yesterday was April 8th and not February, and it was Saturday and she knew that and she knew that Tamaki was waiting for her every day because he said that he liked how she was so dedicated to reading the paper even though no one did anymore and she laughed. 

Because she remembered. 

Because she was never actually alone. Because she never really forgot. It was just easier to think that she did.

And as her fingers skimmed the front page of the paper and she was suddenly aware of every smile he would flash her from across the school hallway that she never seemed to remember before, tears fell from her cheeks and planted themselves to color the black and white pages. 

Because she existed. And she remembers. 

And this was proof that she wasn’t alone.