"I was sad when I met you," he felt your thumb brushing against the back of his hand, "but I don't remember why."

He did. He remembered how you looked that night, eyes rimmed red from crying, your voice trembling as you spoke of the man you didn’t care for. He led you away from the noise to this bridge, hoping to make you feel seen. In that moment, he knew he wanted you, maybe even needed you. Before long, this memory would be his to cherish all by himself.

It had started small. A forgotten key here, a misplaced phone there. But lately, it had worsened. You'd left the stove on and wandered off mid-sentence. Tonight, you had introduced yourself to an old friend like you'd never met him before—like Jude had never existed. He’d felt the ground vanish under him.

Now, sitting on the edge of a bridge, the very bridge where they had shared their first kiss. Back when everything seemed flawless for them, before the outbreak.

The virus hadn’t claimed him; it had taken you instead, but he felt the weight just the same. He was uncertain about how much time he had left with you, unsure if he'd be completely erased from your memory. He watched the cases on the news. He knew what people do when they're forgotten.

Still, he held onto the belief that you would overcome it, that you wouldn't fall prey to the virus as others had. Because you're different. You were his.

Jude knew it was foolish. A childish notion, but that didn't change anything for him. Because it was you.

He couldn’t tell you that now. Couldn’t put that burden back on you, not when you were already losing so much. So he just squeezed your hand, his voice steady even as his heart cracked, “It’s okay,” he whispered. “I remember enough for both of us.”

And he hoped—God, he hoped—that would be enough to hold your relationship together.