Remember

The release of the violin string left behind a devastating, melancholic note to intertwine with the gentle stillness of the air—the sort of beauty that only appealed to those with a penchant for the grayer side of life.

Observing silently, a woman sitting solitarily on a bench near the performer discreetly wiped her eyes, her forlorn expression contrasting the small, nostalgic smile that had crossed her face.

“Who taught you to play?” she inquired gently, praying that he would meet her eyes and show some sort of recognition. Anything to prove that he remembered.

Remembered her.

Remembered them.

“A friend,” he replied slowly, fondly, eyes closed as he coaxed a bittersweet note out of the violin, wrapping up his rendition of the song that had nearly swayed her to tears.

“And who may that be?” she asked politely, sighing internally, knowing that once again she had miscalculated. This timeline wasn’t theirs, either.

“She looked quite a lot like you, actually. Just younger. Less burdened. She was unique.” He chuckled, returning his instrument to its case. “Never told me her name.”

“How…strange.”

“Indeed.” His voice had turned quiet, almost contemplative; she knew from experience that this meant he was someplace else, lost in thought. “And you are?”

Your “friend”.

Yours.

Once upon a time, I was your forever.

“An admirer,” she settled on, allowing herself to get lost in his tender smile and warm eyes. How many more times she could endure having her heart broken, she was unsure.

Yet she would willingly put herself through it time and time again if it was him dealing the blow.

“I was hoping for a name,” he laughed, “but I suppose that will do.”

He looked the same; he always did. Same playful grin. Same gentle eyes. Brown, like his hair. One distant night, many lifetimes ago, as she laid beside him, she had counted each individual speck of amber in them.

Seventeen.

She knew if she were to count again now, it would yield the same result. Other than hobbies, culture, that which was acceptable in their time, he never changed; only she did. Over the years, her hair had gone from black to brown to blonde. Her eyes had changed from green to hazel to blue. The only constant through it all was that she found her way back to him.

Every.

Single.

Time.

Was it destiny or some cruel, warped joke the universe had decided to play on her?

Ah, the irony of the answer.

Only time would tell.

“You’re staring, you know,” he teased her, forcing her to jolt away from her daydream.

“And what if I was?” she shot back, raising a trimmed eyebrow as she crossed her legs. Right over the left.

Even that impulse always remained the same.

“Then I might inquire if you are free this evening.”

She resisted the urge to smile a little to herself. He truly never changed.

“And I might decide to reply that I am.”

She knew she should reject the offer. She should stay away, should avoid the inevitable loss. But she never could.

A funny thing, it was, to teeter on the edge of could be and should be.

The story always went the same.

Both are enthralled.

Both fall in love.

Both hearts are broken.

Again, and again, and again.

For the woman, it was a never-ending cycle of I should let you go, but I can’t.

For him, it was a loop of I feel I should know you, but I don’t.

How gut-wrenching to know you are fated to be with someone—and still be let down every time. How absolutely soul-destroying to relive the same story and hope for a different ending.

The cycle had started almost thirty lifetimes ago, when she had foolishly vowed to remember him forever—a silent wish whispered to a deity she had never expected to answer. In compensation, the woman lived with the weight of that impulsive decision every day.

“Meet me back here around six?” he asked, eyes oh-so-welcoming. If she had just a little more time, she could easily drown in them.

“I’ll be there,” she promised, gathering her belongings and rising, knowing very well that nothing in the universe could ever stop her from showing up for him. Not just tonight. Anywhere, anytime, anyplace. Even if he forgot, she never would. She regretted it often, because, of course, nothing good comes without consequence, but she could physically never erase him from her mind.

From her very soul.

“You know, I feel as if I know you,” he said, furrowing his eyebrows. “Have we met before?”

“I must have one of those faces,” she lied.

She had tried to explain the truth to him in one timeline, but he had been unable to grasp the concept, and she had dismissed it as a joke. A dare. Something inconsequential when, truly, it was the center of her whole universe.

He nodded as if this made sense, waving her off as she turned to leave, footsteps firm and heavy, knowing that if allowed even a second of hesitation, she would turn right back around.

“I’ll see you later?” he called.

“You can count on it,” she promised, and then she was gone, turning around the corner, checking into her apartment. She spent the next hour staring up at the ceiling blankly, wondering when it was that this cycle would end. Whatever she did differently, however far away she distanced herself, he always came back to her. She always went back to him. So she sucked in a couple deep breaths and headed to her closet, delicately rummaging through the entirety of her wardrobe before settling on a pastel dress that complemented her eyes.

In blue.

His favorite color.

As she headed back to the park, she stilled, the melody of his violin drifting out toward her once more. Whether he was a painter, a violinist, a singer, a sculptor, this part of the tale had occurred so many times she could recite it by heart.

She would return to him, and he would smile, as he was doing now. He would look her dead in the eye, as if he could see inside her, to what she tried to hide, and he would open his mouth to speak.

Sure enough, he did.

She knew the next words that would come out of his mouth before his lips even parted.

“I wrote a song for you,” he said smoothly, a lopsided grin on his face.

In past timelines it had been, I painted this for you.

I sculpted this for you.

I want to perform this for you.

Always for her.

Always equally destructive.

“Is that so?” She chuckled sadly, raising an eyebrow. “Let’s hear it, then.”

The first alluring note itself held enough potency to make her reminisce on the one time their story hadn’t been already written.

It had been new.

Brilliant.

It had been everything.

“You don’t remember, do you?” she asked as he finished, his fingers ghosting over the strings as if it were a caress, and looked into his eyes for even a flicker of something. What she was looking for, she didn’t know. Just something different. Anything other than that blank expression he was giving her now.

“Please,” she begged, “tell me you remember.”

“I’m afraid I don’t know what you’re talking about.” He did that cute little thing of his where he scrunched his nose in confusion, something else that she had already seen.

“The song was masterful,” she settled on instead. “If you hadn’t charmed me already, you would have, just now.”

He blinked rapidly at the sudden change of topic, and then shrugged, as if it wasn’t of great significance.

As if.

What he said next shook her to her very core.

“What are you hiding from me?”

“Isn’t it obvious?”

“Huh?”

“That I love you—”

“I’m not sure I follow—”

“—and always will?”

He stilled, and though she knew it was a fool’s dream, she dared to hope.

“Why?” he breathed.

And goodness, for the first time in forever, he was looking at her. Not through her. At her.

She stepped closer, placing a gentle palm on his cheek, watching the way his eyes closed and his eyelashes fluttered over the contours of his face.

“Remember,” she whispered.

“Remember,” she pleaded.

“Remember,” she demanded.

But the story always went the same.

And as the woman watched for the millionth time, he never did.