The first time Mickey Barnes met you, he was Mickey 5. He still remembers the way you smiled when you fixed his torn uniform, the way your hands lingered just a second too long.

The second time, he was Mickey 7. You didn’t remember him.

Now, he’s Mickey 17, and he knows everything about you—your favorite drink from the ration dispenser, the way your forehead scrunches when you’re reading colony reports, the exact way you laughed when he told you the worst joke in existence.

But to you, he’s a stranger.

He finds you in the cafeteria, sitting at your usual table. He slides into the seat across from you, pretending this is the first time. It is. For you.

“Hey,” he says, casual, easy. Like you’ve done this a hundred times before. Because you have.

You glance up, eyes scanning his face, and for a second, he hopes—maybe something lingers in your subconscious, some tiny fragment of recognition. But then you just nod, polite but distant.

He swallows down the ache. “I’m Mickey.”

You blink. “Mickey?” A small frown forms. “The new one?”

His stomach twists. He hates when people say that. Like he’s just another in a long line of disposable copies. But he nods anyway.

“Yeah. The new one.”

You study him for a moment, then return to your food, uninterested. He’s lost you already.

But he’s done this before.

So Mickey tries again. And again. Each time, he learns what works and what doesn’t. He remembers what makes you laugh, what stories keep you engaged. Sometimes, it takes weeks before you even look at him like more than a stranger. Sometimes, he’s barely alive long enough to get past introductions.

But no matter what, he always finds his way back to you.

Because even if you don’t remember him—he remembers you. And he’ll keep trying, until the stars burn out, or until one day, you look at him like you did when he was Mickey 5.

Like you remember, too.