The diary was hidden inside her old saree trunk.
I found it while searching for her winter shawl.
It was small. Blue. Worn at the edges.
The first page read:
"If I ever forget you, Aarohi, I need you to remember this."
My hands started shaking.
I sat on the floor and read.
You were born on a stormy night.
The nurse placed you in my arms and I was terrified.
How can something so small become my whole world?
You didn't sleep unless I sang off-key.
You hated carrots.
You cried the first day of school but pretended you didn't.
Tears blurred the ink.
Page after page was filled with memories.
Tiny details.
The time I fell from my bicycle.
The time I said I wanted to become an astronaut.
The time I told her I hated her during a teenage argument — and she wrote:
She doesn't mean it. She's hurting. I must love her louder.
Then the writing changed.
I forgot where I kept the keys today.
I repeated the same story twice.
I saw fear in her eyes.
And then:
If I ever look at you like I don't know you, please know this — my heart will always recognize you, even if my mind doesn't.
I pressed the diary to my chest and sobbed.
Because somewhere inside her fading mind…
She had been afraid of losing me too.