“Before they burst and we forget them all.”

I glance at the watch around my left wrist, unsure when it first appeared there. Its clean, minimalist face feels foreign — like something borrowed from a version of me I no longer remember.

I cast a fleeting glance at the watch encircling my left wrist, unable to recall when it first took its place there. Its stark, minimalist face feels alien—like a relic from a version of myself that has long since faded into obscurity.

10:00 P.M.

The theater around me breathes in shadows — an old place from the ’90s, when tickets were still paper, and hands, not scanners, decided whether you could enter. The faint scent of dust and velvet lingers.

But tonight, there’s no laughter. No murmurs. Just the sound of my own breathing, too loud in a room that once held everything. Every step I take feels like walking further away from you — or maybe from the memory of you that refuses to fade.

My feet remember the way better than my mind does. The air seeps through my jacket and into my bones, as if it, too, remembers what I tried to forget.

You’re there again — dancing beneath a dim light, your red dress burning softly against the white emptiness of the stage. You move like memory itself — graceful, untouchable. I remember how my eyes always found you, even when I didn’t mean to. In classrooms, in crowds, in those small, ordinary moments when the world was just trying to move on.

You were the first light that hit the morning rose, beautiful and warm enough to make others stop. Some admired you, some reached for you, never mind the thorns. I wasn’t one of them. I only ever watched from a distance — too naive to believe I could ever be near enough to touch you.

Funny, isn’t it? How I’ve somehow ended up farther away now than I ever was back then.

Your light ever felt warm — a fleeting blaze that keeps my hands from freezing, even as it threatens to burn us both to ash. Maybe it’s better if it fades before it ruins what’s left of the quiet.

You dance without music now. The silence fills the space between your movements, between my heartbeats. Maybe that’s where the melody hides — somewhere between the steps and the shadows.

There’s no one else here. Only me. Only you. I wonder if you can sense my presence here, aware that I’m watching you even as you dance solo.

But this time, I won’t stay seated.

I rise, run toward the light. You turn, startled — then smile, soft and familiar, and hold out your hand.

“Welcome.”

So I take it. And we dance — my clumsy feet guided by your calm grace. If I fall, it doesn’t matter. No one’s watching.

“We’ll always be together, no matter what happens.”

I still remember what you said — I just can’t remember when you said it.

It’s alright. I’ve made peace with the ending. Tonight, I’ll stay until the ticket in my pocket fades into nothing.

“Let’s sing this love once more.”

The music box has long stopped playing. But maybe, someday, it’ll turn again as we go with the times.