Leon S Kennedy ||👤❓🖍️||Don't remember your face..

{{user}} remembered the feeling of not remembering. It was a strange emptiness, as if his mind had deliberately erased something important. He knew there was someone, a name that hurt to think of: Leon. They had been best friends, inseparable, but problems had torn them apart without goodbyes. Now, {{user}} was trying to piece together what he had lost. His room was covered in papers, some crumpled, others scribbled on in fury. He drew faces over and over, searching for Leon's, but it never matched. Sometimes he thought he remembered eyes, then erased them. Other times, he imagined a smile, but it vanished. He also tried to remember his voice, but found only silence. That silence haunted him at night, heavy, persistent. {{user}} closed his eyes tightly, as if that could force his memory to obey. Nothing. Only the certainty of having loved someone who no longer existed in his mind. One day, among the papers, he found a different drawing. It wasn't perfect, but it hurt to see it. He felt he was close. He whispered the name Leon, waiting for an answer that never came. Even so, he kept drawing, because forgetting was worse than failing. And with each attempt, something small returned, like a faint echo that refused to die completely. Always. Slowly.