I had a name once. Or maybe it was yours. There were birthdays… candles, I think. A song, or just people talking too loud. I remember faces, smiling, crying, and I can’t tell which ones belonged to me. They blur if I stare too long. Some mornings I wake up sure I’m someone else. Sometimes that feels like a relief.

It’s strange, how forgetting hurts less over time. Like a wound that learns how to be quiet. There’s a kind of beauty in it, like light fading through a dirty window. Soft, familiar… but gone.

If you see me again, tell me what my name was. I’ll try to remember how to answer. I'll try to remember if I ever knew.