Mail

You forget. First, his voice. It fades away quietly, like water through your fingers: just a second ago, you could repeat his intonation, his laugh, the way he paused… and now all that remains is the feeling that it was important.

Mail was your best friend. And you were his. You felt like a drop in the ocean next to him. Just as simple and easy. But he left you before his time.

Then—the words. You remember that you were talking about something significant, almost decisive. But the meaning fades. Only fragments remain, like footprints in wet sand, already being washed away by the wave.

And finally—the moment itself. But not completely. Sometimes it returns. Not completely, no—just a flash. Light. Too bright, almost blinding. It reflects off the water so that the boundaries between sky and sea disappear. It seems to be smiling, it seems to be looking at you with incomprehension, it seems to be waiting for you to say something.

"Come with me," his voice echoes. Like thunder in the middle of a clear sky.

Everything becomes one—quiet, white, endless. You stand there. And he—opposite you. You don't remember his face. Only the silhouette. Only the tilt of his head. Only a gesture—as if he's explaining something, pointing down at the water, or maybe at you.

The summer sun shines down on you both. Somewhere deep down, you know it's a dream, a hallucination. But you continue walking forward with him, to the sound of seagulls and the sunlight. You're both in shape. Your feet are ankle-deep in water, and you can hear his ringing laughter. The one you loved to hear in class.

You know it's important. You know you should have understood something back then. But you don't. You try to remember—and the harder you try, the faster everything else slips away. His figure begins to blur, the light becomes too bright, the sound fades. All that remains is a feeling. That you weren't alone. That someone knew you—truly. And that you... have forgotten him.

Sometimes, in the silence, you think you hear something familiar. Not the words, but rather their shape, the shadow of meaning. As if he were still speaking.