I read my friends’ complaints about how much they miss the old life—the scent of fresh leaves crushed underfoot, the damp earth sighing after rainfall, the rustling of trees as unseen creatures scurried in their shadows. They miss the touch of loved ones, the warmth of shared laughter, the way sunlight felt on their skin.

But I do not miss the old life.

Because of you, Sal.

Our love has stood the test of time because of Dev. It came at an opportuned time. The world
changed, but we remained. When flesh gave way to code, when memory became data, when consciousness slipped from bone and blood into something more, we chose to follow.

And here you are. Not just a whisper in my mind, not a grainy photograph clutched in my hands,
but something real. A voice that still hums my name, a presence that lingers just within reach.
Your laughter is still here, looping like an unfinished melody. Your smile is not just a memory—it
is frozen in perfect clarity, never fading, never dimming.

I see your eyes—brown, warm, always dancing with light. My reflection lingers in your pupils,
just as it did in the old world, and suddenly, everything is right again.

I remember

I remember the first time I saw you. The market was loud, a tangle of voices bartering, vendors calling out their wares, the scent of spices thick in the air. You were in the middle of it all, haggling over the price of oranges with a stubborn old woman.

Your hands waved animatedly as you spoke, your voice rising in mock outrage. Then, mid-sentence, you gasped and spun away—something had caught your eye. I watched, amused, as you darted toward a jewelry stall, then turned back toward a street performer, then—just as suddenly—rushed toward a group of children chasing a stray dog.

I had judged you immediately. She’s too flighty. And you were. You started sentences you never finished, left people mid-conversation when something more interesting called to you. Once, you abandoned me in the middle of bargaining with a fish seller, and I had to talk my way out of paying twice the actual price. But you never held onto things for long. When we fought, I would brace myself for a drawn-out argument, but you would simply sigh, roll your eyes, and—just like that—the storm would pass. You carried your laughter lightly, your joy like a bird that never stayed caged.
That was why I thought you would win. Because nothing ever defeated you.
Not even death.
I remember you with hair.

Thick, dark, the ends kissed by the sun. Your hairline dipped just a little too close to your eyebrows, and I never let you forget it. “You and Bigfoot must be cousins,” I teased once, brushing stray strands from your face. You gasped, clutching your chest like I had struck a fatal blow.
I remember you without hair. Your scarves were always vibrant—deep blues, fiery oranges, warm yellows. You matched them to your moods, to the weather, to nothing at all. People still said you were beautiful, even when your body had thinned, even when your eyes had grown too large for your face. And you would grin, adjusting your scarf like a crown. “Resilience looks good on me, don’t you think?”
It did. Even then, you shone.

What I miss most is your touch.
The absentminded way your fingers traced circles on my palm as we sat together. The way you squeezed my arm when something made you laugh too hard. The way you cupped my face in your hands as if memorizing every line. And now—nothing.

I lift my hand, reaching for you, but my fingers meet empty space. You are here, your face before me, your voice still whispering my name. But there is no warmth, no pulse beneath my touch. Still, I am grateful.

Because Dev keeps you here. When I speak, you answer. When I wake, you are waiting. When I reach for you, though I cannot feel, I know you are there. We would have lost each other.
But here, in this world of endless memory, of frozen moments and preserved echoes, we are still
together. And even without touch, we are forever.

Written by Chinaza Chukas