The next morning, I woke up earlier than usual.
The sunlight spilling through the window didn't feel like warmth, it felt like intrusion, like it was forcing me to open my eyes when I wasn't ready to face the world.
I sat on the edge of the bed, tracing the faint crease on my wrist where Ken used to hold me.
Or… where I thought he did.
The memory was so vivid, it almost hurt.
His voice still echoed in my mind, soft, teasing, impossibly real.
"You're safe here."
That's what he told me the last time I saw him.
The words looped inside my chest like a melody I couldn't unhear.
I left the hospital quietly, telling my mom I just needed air.
She looked at me with that expression, a mix of pity and fear, like she was watching someone she couldn't reach anymore.
The city was alive, ordinary.
Cars passed by.
A man sold roasted peanuts by the corner.
A group of students laughed as they ran toward the bus stop.
Everything was exactly as it should be.
Except me.
I walked to the park again.
The same park where I last saw him.
The same bench.
The same fountain.
Everything felt familiar, painfully, cruelly familiar.
I sat there for hours.
Watching.
Waiting.
Every man who walked by made my heart skip for a fraction of a second.
Every laugh that sounded even remotely like his twisted my chest.
And then, nothing.
Just silence again.
I closed my eyes.
He'll show up.
He always does.
But when I opened them, the world looked sharper.
Colder.
The laughter faded.
The air was still.
It was as if the park itself had forgotten him.
The bench where we sat together once, it didn't even feel the same.
It was just a bench.
The spot where he bought me ice cream, the vendor wasn't there anymore.
Even the old tree we sat under looked… smaller.
I whispered his name once.
"Ken."
The sound of it felt foreign now, as if I was saying it for the first time.
I tried to remember his voice, his face, his hands, but the harder I tried, the blurrier they became.
It was like my mind was folding in on itself, erasing him piece by piece.
"No," I muttered, pressing my palms against my temples. "No, no, no… you're real. You're real, you're real—"
My voice cracked.
People passing by turned to look at me, some whispering, some pitying.
I didn't care.
Let them think I'm crazy.
I stood up and started walking again, faster this time, retracing every place I'd been with him.
The street where we bought coffee.
The convenience store that sold his favorite candy.
The underpass where he stopped to tie his shoelace while I waited.
Each place existed.
But not us.
No one remembered him.
No one even looked twice when I said his name.
And that's when something inside me began to break.
Not loudly.
Not dramatically.
Just quietly, like a thread snapping somewhere deep in the dark.
By the time I got back to my apartment, the sun was setting.
I sat by the window, hugging my knees to my chest, watching the world move on without me.
My phone was still silent.
No messages.
No missed calls.
I opened my gallery, nothing.
No photos of him.
No traces.
Not even a name in my contacts list.
But my heart still remembered.
That's the cruelest part.
You can't erase what the heart insists is real.
I whispered into the twilight, voice trembling,
"If you're not real… then what am I?"
The silence that answered me was heavy.
Unforgiving.
But somewhere within it, I swore I heard his voice, faint, distant, like a dream slipping through my fingers.
And even though I knew I was alone, I whispered back anyway.
"Ken… I miss you."