I'll Be Here Tomorrow

The light in the room was dim, the early evening sun just beginning to slip through the curtains in golden slants. The scent of freshly brewed coffee lingered in the air, mingling with the faint trace of cleaning supplies—something sterile, clinical, almost too clean. Judith sat by the window, staring out at the garden she no longer remembered planting. Her fingers moved slowly, tracing the frayed edges of the quilt on her lap. The fabric was soft with age, worn down by time and touch. She thought she had made it herself once. The pieces felt familiar—stitched with care—but the story behind them had vanished, like threads slipping from a needle.

Beside her, something stirred. A soft rustle of paper. The quiet, rhythmic scratch of a pen across a notebook. Judith turned her head, her neck stiff and reluctant, and blinked at the figure sitting across from her. An older man, his face a landscape of time: lines etched deep across his forehead and around his mouth. But his eyes—his eyes were sharp and kind. She knew those eyes. She had always known those eyes.

"Do I know you?" she asked. Her voice was soft, hesitant, as though she were tasting the shape of the words before letting them go.

The man stilled. His pen hovered in midair, frozen above the page. For a moment, his brow creased, as if searching for the right response—or perhaps the gentlest one. Judith braced herself. She had seen it before: the way people reacted to her blank stares, their voices tightening with forced patience, or worse, with pity. But he only set the pen down, fingers brushing the cover of the notebook as if it were something sacred.

“Judith,” he said, his voice low and deliberate. “It’s me. Jack.”

Jack. The name landed softly in her mind, like a feather dropped into fog. She could almost hear it—someone calling it, laughing it. But the connection, the weight behind the word—it slipped through her fingers like smoke.

“I’m sorry,” Judith murmured. “I don’t—”

“I know,” he said gently, cutting her off before she could finish. “It’s okay. You don’t have to remember. I’m just... glad I’m here. That’s all.”

His words hung between them, tender and heavy. A quiet promise, or maybe a wish. Judith studied him, the kindness in his voice, the way his gaze softened when it landed on her. There was something in that look—familiar, steady. Even if she didn’t know him, she could feel that he knew her.

“I don’t want you to be sad,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper. She didn’t know why she said it—it just felt true. “I don’t want you to be mad.”

Jack’s smile was small, but it reached his eyes. “I’m not mad. I could never be mad at you, Judith.”

The reassurance should have comforted her, but it only deepened the ache inside. She had forgotten. Lost pieces of herself—of him. And in losing them, she had lost the bridge between them. It was like trying to hold water in her hands: the harder she tried, the faster it slipped away.

“Do you... do you come here often?” she asked, blinking quickly, unsure if the question would hurt him. She wanted to offer something—connection, even if borrowed.

“Every day,” Jack said without hesitation. “I come here every day. I’ve never stopped.”

Judith nodded, the words settling into her chest like the last light of the sun. She didn’t know what to say. So many questions formed in her mind, but none of them stayed long enough to be spoken. They evaporated, just like the memories.

“I miss you,” Jack added quietly. It sounded like a confession. “I miss who you were. The way you used to be.”

The words struck her. Who she was. Who had she been? Was she still in there somewhere, hidden behind the blank spaces?

Flashes stirred in her mind—laughter in a warm kitchen, the scent of bread baking, a garden bursting with color. But they were faded now, like photographs left too long in the sun.

“You don’t have to miss me,” Judith said, the words unfamiliar on her tongue. “I’m still here. I’m still me.”

Jack’s smile trembled, just for a moment. He reached across the table and took her hand. His grip was light but sure, his fingers trembling slightly against hers.

“I know you are, Judy,” he said. “But sometimes, I just... I wish I could bring you back.”

Judith didn’t answer. She didn’t know how. She only nodded slowly, her fingers curling around his.

The door creaked open then, and a nurse stepped in—Marie. Judith didn’t remember her, but the woman’s gentle smile felt like something solid, something safe. She nodded politely to Jack before walking over.

“How are you doing today, Miss Judith?” Marie asked softly.

Judith returned her smile. “I’m doing alright,” she said, unsure what alright even meant anymore. “Just a little tired.”

Marie nodded. “It’s time for your evening medication. Do you want help getting ready for bed?”

Judith glanced back at Jack, still holding his hand. Her voice broke through the quiet again.

“Do I know you?” she asked. Her eyes searched his face, her tone more insistent now. “Have we met before?”

Jack’s expression barely changed, but something flickered behind his eyes—a flicker of sorrow, or perhaps devotion. He didn’t flinch. He didn’t look away.

“Yes, Judith,” he said softly. “We’ve met before. And I’ll always be here.”

Judith studied him, trying to fit him into a memory she no longer had. But there was only fog. Only that voice, that unwavering gaze.

“I don’t remember,” she whispered. “I’m sorry.”

Jack nodded, his hand still warm in hers. “I know, sweetheart. I know.”

Marie touched Judith’s shoulder gently. “Let’s get you ready for bed, Miss Judith.”

Judith let go of Jack’s hand slowly, her fingers reluctant to part. Jack rose with her, careful and steady, and bent to press a kiss to her forehead. It lingered there, quiet and sure.

“I’ll be here tomorrow,” he whispered. “And the day after that.”

Judith smiled faintly. The words drifted around her like a lullaby. Maybe she’d remember tomorrow. Or maybe she wouldn’t. But Jack would be there.

And for now, that was enough.