{19}

/We haven't had a sad one in a while >:3/

There was a time... There was a time when Noya could recall the feel of Asahi's lips as easily as he could recall his own name.

There was a time... There was a time when he could recall the sound of Asahi's voice. Asahi's deep voice... Asahi's sweet voice. Asahi's comforting voice. He was able to recall it as easily as he could recall the name of his favorite song.

There was a time... There was a time when when he could recall the color of Asahi's hair. Asahi's long hair. Asahi's soft hair. He was able to recall it as easily as he could recall his favorite color.

There was a time... There was a time when he could recall the color of Asahi's eyes. Asahi's big eyes. Asahi's shiny eyes. He was able to recall it as easily as he could recall the color of his own eyes.

There was a time... There was a time when he could list everything Asahi likes and dislikes, under two minutes. He likes chocolate. He doesn't like strawberries. He likes both cats and dogs, but prefers cats. He likes classical music. He doesn't like heavy metal... He was able to recall it as easily as he could recall all of his own likes and dislikes.

There was a time..... There was a time when he could list all of Asahi's dreams...

BUT NOW.

NOW...

Asahi is a dream, a blurry image...

A blurry image whose touch goes right through him...

A blurry image whose voice barely reaches his ears.

A blurry image whose hair is never the same color twice...

Whose eyes are never the same color twice.

A blurry image who one day likes chocolate, and the next day doesn't.

A blurry image who IS a dream...

A dream that has no dreams.

"Azumane Asahi" Noya whispers to himself, as he write the name... As he write the sentence. I love Azumane Asahi.

He write the sentence once a day.

When, a few months later, he is barely able to recall the name, he writes it more...

He writes teh sentence twice a day.

He writes the sentence three times a day.

Four...

Five...

Six...

Seven...

Eight...

Nine...

A couple years later, he is writing it ten times a day.

A couple years after that, he doesn't write it at all.

It has become impossible for him to hold a pencil...

Impossible for him to care for himself.

"Azumane Asahi," Noya whispers to himself, as the nurse helps him into bed. "That name sounds familiar... Do I know an Azumane Asahi?"