“You” • by Conrad Gardner

It’s you, it’s always been you. 

When they asked me what I wanted to remember, when the time came, I said your name without needing to pause to think.

What did I want to remember? The doctors asked.

“Everything,” I said. But that wasn’t feasible, so I had to select one event in particular, a single moment of time for me to hold onto whilst my mind decayed.

When faced with that choice, my mind raced with all the time we’d spent together; making food with you, being in bed with you, holding you in my arms while you fell asleep watching a film. I wanted to hold onto all of them, but couldn’t pinpoint one of them out of the sea of time we’d spent together.

The doctors gave me a couple of days to pick one. It wasn’t until the time I’m writing this—07/04/2050—that I realised what I wanted to keep.

It was my father’s funeral. The people were filing out, offering their condolences and a handshake. You looked at me, and gave me a three-millimetre smile. Nothing more, nothing less, three millimetres. And I understood then, in that moment, how important you were to me.

You still are. Always will be, Even when I can’t remember your name, I can remember that smile now, and that’s all I’ll need.

When I’m no longer here, I hope you can read this, and remember that I love you.

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Conrad Gardner’s work has previously appeared in Superlative Literary Journal, Sci Phi Journal, and Impossible Worlds. When not writing, he can be found running, reading, and hoping for a better tomorrow.