We met when we were young. You proposed that same year. Neither of us could even
spell “marriage.” This is one of those things I myself don’t remember. My mother did, though.
As did you. I’ve always found it funny that, as many times as you have forgotten my likes, my
dislikes, my favorite color, my birthday, you can still recall that. That you once loved me.
            When we met again, in high school, everything I knew about you was an amalgamation
of near-fifteen-year-old memories and hallway rumors. You were the one to reach out to me, as
always, but soon, I was the one chasing after you. The classic “he fell first; she fell harder.” And
I never quite got back up.
            For a while, after graduation, when I was hell-bent on getting over you, I saved just about
everything any boy ever said to me. I held onto screenshots of sweet texts my new boyfriend
sent. Downloaded videos his friends had sent me of us holding hands. I wanted to collect
everything. To prove to myself, on the days when it got hard to remember, I mattered to
someone, even if it wasn’t you.
            Again and again, we have reconnected. Again and again, I’ve fallen for you. It’s like
watching a toddler race down a hallway, tripping over loose Velcro and landing flat on her face.
            I knew I was always going to be a problem. I just wanted to be your problem. To be a part
of your problem, and the solution, and the struggle spanning the gap. I wanted to be your
everything. And though I’m not nothing to you, and I pray I’ll never be, I keep thinking if you
could just remember how to love me, nothing, not even the future, could feel scary to me.
            Sometimes, I worry the past is all we’ll have. Yet at least I have these memories. At least
I have the past. At least I know you loved me at one point, before. Piece by piece, I recreate you
in my increasingly hazy mind, making you into something I know you will never be.