The Fading Moon Chapter 28: The Letter for Today

Read chapter 28 of The Fading Moon by MananTayal on NovelPedia.

The photograph from the rooftop became Mike's favorite. Not because it was perfect. Not because the lighting was beautiful. Not because the city looked breathtaking behind her. It became his favorite because of the way Jessika was smiling. It wasn't her playful smile. Or her teasing smile. Or the smile she used whenever she wanted something. It was different. Peaceful. As if she had accepted something. As if she had found a quiet understanding with the world. Mike stared at the photograph countless times over the next few days. And every single time it made his chest ache. Because the more he looked at it, the more he realized how much he feared forgetting. Forgetting her voice. Her laugh. The way she rolled her eyes. The way she always stole food from his plate. The way she called him boring whenever he acted responsible. The way she transformed ordinary moments into unforgettable ones. He feared time. Because time stole things. And for the first time in his life, he hated it. A few days later, rain returned once more. The hospital windows rattled softly beneath the storm. Jessika was asleep when Mike arrived. A notebook rested on her chest. One hand loosely holding a pen. As if she had fallen asleep while writing. Mike carefully sat beside her. Trying not to wake her. The notebook slipped slightly. He instinctively caught it. And froze. Written across the top page were several words. Things I Never Want Mike To Forget His heart skipped. The notebook wasn't closed. He hadn't intended to read it. But the title alone felt like a punch to the chest. Quickly, he looked away. Closing the notebook gently. He didn't want to invade her privacy. Even now. Especially now. A few minutes later Jessika woke up. The moment she saw the notebook in his hands, her eyes widened. "You saw it?" "Only the title." "Oh." She relaxed slightly. Then looked embarrassed. Which was unusual. Jessika was rarely embarrassed. Now Mike was curious. "What is it?" "Nothing." "It's obviously something." "It's not important." "It's clearly important." She groaned dramatically. Then buried her face beneath the blanket. Mike smiled. The sight was ridiculous. A few seconds later she peeked out again. Only her eyes visible. "You promise not to laugh?" "Maybe." "Mike." "I promise." She sat up slowly. Then took the notebook. Holding it against her chest. For a moment she seemed unsure. Then finally she spoke. "I've been writing things." "What kind of things?" "The kind of things people forget." Mike listened quietly. Jessika stared down at the notebook. "Like favorite songs." A small smile appeared. "Favorite snacks." Another. "Funny memories." Her smile slowly faded. "The sound of someone's laugh." The room became quiet. Mike understood. She wasn't making notes. She was preserving pieces of herself. The same way he used photographs. She was using words. Because she was afraid. Afraid that time would erase things. Afraid that memories would fade. Afraid that one day Mike might struggle to remember. And that fear broke his heart. "You know I won't forget." Jessika smiled sadly. "Maybe." "I won't." She looked out the window. Rain slid slowly down the glass. "My grandmother used to say memories are like photographs." Mike blinked. That sounded familiar. "How?" Jessika smiled. "If you leave them alone too long, they start fading." The words settled heavily between them. Mike looked down at his camera. Maybe that was why he loved photography. Because photographs fought against fading. They fought against time. Against forgetting. Against loss. At least a little. That evening, after a long period of silence, Jessika suddenly remembered something. Her eyes widened. "Oh." "What?" She pointed toward his backpack. "The box." Mike froze. The Box of Tomorrow. The one still sitting untouched in his apartment. Jessika narrowed her eyes. "You haven't opened anything, have you?" "No." "I knew it." "I wasn't supposed to." "You could've opened one." "No." Jessika sighed dramatically. T