November 21, 2041.

I'm not writing to say I miss you. I'm not writing to bargain with God. I'm not even writing to get a response. Not that it's likely you'll even read this.

I'm writing because it's unfair to me. It's unfair to me that I never got to say goodbye and you're peaceful. It's unfair that this is all I have left.

We used to write to each other, do you remember?

It started on the fourth day of class. You came to our history class ten minutes late and took the seat next to me, avoiding all eye contact. I still remember how the tips of your ears were tinted red as everyone silently judged you for being late.

You kept sniffling like you had a cold. I handed you the tissue box next to me, a simple gesture, one I thought was normal. But you smiled so brightly, your eyes crinkling behind your mask as you took it from me.

Five minutes later, you passed me a note, a piece of paper folded in half. Written on it, the words Thank you - Kim Seungmin.

I didn't write back; instead, I just looked up and smiled at you. I couldn't have known the importance you would hold in my heart years later.

You walked with me out of the class an hour later, quietly walking by my side as we made our way up the stairs and out the building.

Do you remember? The way you shyly grabbed my wrist? The way you put your phone in my hand, asking me quietly for my number? How you smiled so brightly when I typed it in and told you my name?

You probably don't anymore. But I do. It hurts more, now than ever, to visit you. The nurses said you can't form sentences anymore, the disease making you forget words. God, the number of times I want to cry, knowing that everything we had you can't remember.

I'll remember for the both of us, okay? And I'll write it all down so you can read these one day. Or I can read you them, like in that old romance movie we watched on a date. One day. I promise.