“I’m worried you’ll forget me.” I bury my face into his neck.

Easing me out of our embrace, he wipes away the tear that escaped my eye with his thumb. His smile isn’t mocking — it’s warm, comforting, and somehow brighter than the fear in my chest.

“What if you forget what I sound like?” My voice wavers.

“I’ll call your phone every night. And when you don’t answer, your voicemail will soothe me to sleep.” He tucks a loose strand of hair behind my ear.

“What if you forget what I smell like?” I sniffle.

“I’ll keep your shirt on my pillow. And when your scent fades, I’ll spray your perfume so you’re still there with me. Even if my friends ask me why my room smells like a flower shop.” He wipes my nose with the back of his sleeve — gentle, even in the smallest indignities.

“What if you forget what I feel like?” I wrap my arms around myself.

“Impossible,” he says. “You’re carved into me — under my skin, sparking through my veins.” He pulls me back into his arms, his palms warm on my back.

“Okay, it’s just… a long time.”

“To the ends of the Earth or to the ends of time,” he murmurs, “you’ll be with me, forever on my mind.”

Holding him a bit tighter, I nestle further into his shirt, breathing him in. My chest feels full, echoing a quiet, endless forever. And I smile.