I try to remember a bit of him and a bit of us, every day, scared of forgetting. Little did I know something as delightful and uplifting as our love could end in the most excruciating pain -- yet I still crave it, viscerally. I'd love him over and over again even if the story yields the same ending. It's become part of myself, engraved into my being, my identity.
Do you try to remember me, too? Or are you forgetful as always, and have long forgotten about me, about us? No, you'll never. You'll only think of me for the rest of your days. Because you said there's not another me... nor another you.