“You love me,” says a voice Joel doesn’t remember.
He’s alone in this dream, lying down on a cloud and staring up at a bright blue sky. His cloud is the only one he can see, though that may not say much, as he doesn’t think he can manage to sit up and look around.
“I do,” he says aloud. It’s the truth, even if he doesn’t know who he’s talking to. The statement feels right. That’s what matters.
Something brushes against his cheek, and he flinches. He can’t see it, and he doesn’t like things he can’t see, but it’s soft and sweet and gentle with him in a way he doesn’t remember.
“You love me,” the voice says again. “You love me. Why can’t you remember me?”
“I don’t know,” Joel says. He reaches a hand up to press against the face of the voice. He can’t see it, but he can feel the smooth skin under the palm of his hand, cool in a way that humans aren’t, lines and divots along the cheek that remind him of scales.
He has a ring on his finger, he notices.
It’s silver and thin, carved with intricate swirls that remind him almost of waves and whirlpools. He turns his hand to stare at it, and then pauses as his hand is grabbed. The sky itself has taken form, and holds him kindly. A golden ring, less intricate, sits upon its finger.
She, whoever she is, is formless. He can see something like her outline, but he can only focus on certain things at a time, like her hands, or her hair, or the familiar smile that plays on her lips. He can’t remember anything about her, if he tries to think about it, but she is so there, and he’s quite sure he loves her.
“I’m sorry,” he tells her. “I can’t remember you. I’m sorry.”
She smiles, and her teeth are sharp, but she’s so kind anyway, and those teeth will never harm his skin.
“We were never meant to remember, Joel.” She kneels just beside him, and leans against his side. “I was never going to. You know how easy it is for me to forget.” She presses a kiss to his lips, and it tastes like seasalt. “I could never hate you for forgetting me.”
Joel feels something in his chest break. “You forgot me?” He asks. He can hear the crack in his voice, but the idea of her having forgotten - the idea that they might find each other and neither of then would know - it terrifies him.
“Oh, Joel,” she says. She has been a little smaller than him for the duration of their conversation, and it’s so strange to him, who has been at least double the height of nearly everyone he knows for a long, long time.
But then she grows.
She is double his height now, and he breathes in a shaky gasp, because this is how it’s supposed to be. She holds his face in steady hands, and presses a kiss to his forehead, then pulls him up to rest against her.
He’s crying. He can’t see her, but he can feel her, and he’s clenching at the fabric of her dress in fists. She brushes through his hair, and he shudders.
“I should remember you. I have to. I love you.”
“You love me,” she agrees. “That’s what matters. You’ve forgotten me, and you haven’t seen me in all this time, and you love me still. Don’t you think that counts for something?” She squeezes him closer.
“I’m sorry,” Joel says again. And then again, and again, and again, shutting his eyes tight, and continuing on, apologizing over and over.
“I’m sorry,” he says again.
And something feels different. Another apology sits heavy on his tongue, but he opens his eyes to the ceiling of his bedroom, and he stays silent.
The dream is fading from his memory. But he remembers the sky, and a cloud under his back, and he remembers an apology on his lips. Another phrase waits at the back of his mind, but he doesn’t know what it is.
That’s alright. He’s used to not remembering things.
(Something whispers to him “I love you.”)
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