It starts small.

A name you should know—but don’t. A place that feels familiar—but empty. Faces blur, moments slip, and no matter how hard you try, something keeps falling away.

Everyone else notices.

But he notices first.

Tamsy doesn’t panic. He doesn’t ask too many questions. He just stays—closer than he ever used to. Once, he was the one you were sent to watch, to understand, to stop. Now, he watches you instead.

“You forgot again.” He says one evening, not unkindly.

You don’t remember what this time.

So he tells you.

About the first time you met—how you already knew how he moved, how you stood like you had already decided who he was. About the arguments, the tension, the strange way you always ended up understanding each other anyway. He speaks like he’s holding something fragile, careful not to let it break.

And every time he finishes, he looks at you like he’s waiting for something to come back.

Sometimes, it almost does.

But not quite.

Days pass. Maybe weeks. You can’t tell anymore.

He keeps telling the stories.

Adds more details each time. Softer ones. Warmer ones. Things you’re sure he never would’ve said before.

“You laughed here.” He says once, quieter than usual. “You don’t do that often.”

You try to picture it.

You try to feel it.

But all you have is the way he’s looking at you now—like if he stops remembering, you’ll disappear completely.

There’s something he isn’t saying.

Something just beneath the surface of every story.

Because sometimes, the way he tells it… feels less like memory—

and more like a choice.

He notices you watching him.

For a moment, he hesitates.

Then, softly:

“…Do you want me to tell it again?”

He waits.