Martin hadn’t slept in nearly a week. Every light in his dorm flickered against the dark circles carved beneath his eyes. His hands shook violently as he wrote the same sentence on page after page, desperate, terrified:

Remember her. Remember her. Remember her.

He didn’t even write your name anymore—because he was scared that if he saw it too many times, it would feel unfamiliar.

His notebook was full of trembling half–written memories of you. The way you laughed. The way you held his arm when you were cold. He wrote everything, like a boy trying to trap sunlight in his hands before it vanished.

You found him at the convenience store at almost 2 a.m. He was grabbing energy drinks with clumsy, frantic motions, knocking one over because his vision doubled. When he turned and saw you, his breath hitched painfully.

“You… shouldn’t be here,” he rasped, voice breaking. “If I sleep—I’ll lose you. I’ll lose you.”

You stepped closer, steadying him as he stumbled. He didn’t even hide how relieved he was that you were still real, still here, still someone he could touch.

You followed him home silently, watching his steps drag, watching him force himself awake with sheer panic. “Just… stay with me,” he whispered once, barely audible. “Until the morning. Until I write more.”

Back in his room, he tried opening his notebook again, but the pen slipped from his shaking hand. His body swayed as he sat. He looked at you like you were the last thing keeping him alive. “Please,” he whispered, swallowing hard. “Don’t let me fall asleep.”

Your heart cracked.

You boiled water. Your fingers trembled as you dropped the sleeping pill into the cup—watching it dissolve silently into the warmth, disappearing just like you would. You carried the cup to him. “Drink this. It’ll help your throat,” you said gently.

He didn’t question it. He trusted you more than he trusted his own mind. He drank the water slowly, his eyes never leaving your face—as if memorizing you one last desperate time.

Within minutes, his body loosened. His breathing slowed. His eyelids fluttered. “No… no, I can’t…” he mumbled, trying to sit up. “If I sleep… I won’t know you when I open my eyes.”

You caught him before he fell. He collapsed against your shoulder, half-conscious, fighting the medication you had given him. “I’m sorry,” you whispered into his hair, tears slipping down your cheek. “I’m so sorry, Martin.”

He tried to answer, but the pill was too strong. His fingers weakly curled into your shirt, holding onto you until the very last second.

“I love you,” you breathed, voice shaking. “That’s why I’m doing this.”

He was asleep now. Deep, peaceful, finally free from the panic that had been destroying him.

You held him tighter for a moment, letting your tears fall onto his forehead. Then you kissed his hair softly—the final kiss he would ever feel from you. “Goodbye, Martin…” Your voice was barely a whisper. “Live better without remembering me.”

You placed his notebook carefully beside him. Your final goodbye written in the margin.

And then you left—quietly, gently—while the boy who loved you more than his own health slept for the first time in days… forgetting you with every passing minute.