People who say they can remember a face, a voice, a person perfectly, they’re lying. Time steals details from us all, so slowly we don’t even notice they’re missing until we try to recall them. Five years ago I would have sworn I’d never forget a thing about you; but I can’t make that claim anymore, can I? And such a subtle siphoning it was, a continuous loss I never felt until one morning I couldn’t remember the precise lines of your hands, and then another morning your voice no longer ran through my thoughts with clarity. Then certain aspects of your smile, your laugh, your gestures, those vanished as well. What a month ago I had recalled so easily was suddenly like mist or the edges of a dream; insubstantial, uncertain. I didn’t want to, you know. I never meant to forget any of it – in fact I ran my mind over your memory like I was reading braille, determined to remember every ridge, every curve, every dip and turn. I was sure I’d never forget any of it, and then… I did. I forgot, and continue to forget. The memories grow hazier, the details blurrier, the years we spent together compacted in my mind to days, maybe weeks, or maybe nothing real at all. With no evidence of your presence remaining, it’s become too easy to question whether you were ever really here at all. Maybe I’ll wake up one morning and forget that most crucial fact completely.