Day 60.
We sat in the quiet park,under the same tree we always did.
The wind was soft, the light golden.And she was holding my hand like she still remembered how.
She looked at me and said—
"I want to give you something.A memory.One that's not real.But maybe… it can be real if you want it to be."
I blinked.Said nothing.
She smiled softly.
"It was a summer afternoon.We were at the beach.You made me chase you through the waves.I tripped, and you pulled me up.Then you kissed my forehead and said,'I want every summer with you.'"
She laughed.
"It never happened.But I wish it did.So maybe you can keep it for me.Just in case I run out of real ones."
I was silent.
Then I leaned in.
Pressed my forehead to hers.
"Then it's real now."
"How?"
"Because I'll remember it.And I'll believe in it.Even if you forget."
That night, I wrote in her notebook:
"Day 60.You gave me a memory that never existed.But I'll hold it like it's the only one that ever mattered."
"Even if you disappear—I'll always have that day at the beach.Because it's where we were most alive."
Day 59.
She forgot my name again.
Didn't say much.
But she drew a little wave on a sticky note.
Handed it to me.
And smiled.
I cried in silence when I got home.Holding that sticky note like it was a seashell from a place we never went to.
But still real.
Because she gave it to me.
Sometimes, love isn't about preserving memories.It's about creating something so full of meaning—that it doesn't matter if it really happened or not.