Page 21 of June

Two months had passed since that night beneath the Gemini moon, and in that time, Liam and I had quietly, almost unknowingly, begun stitching our lives together. Not with fireworks or declarations, but with the subtle, sacred threads of shared routines and quiet companionship.

The whirlwind of first dates had softened into something more grounded, more intimate. Our mornings started at the little café on the corner, where the barista no longer asked for our order—just greeted us with a knowing smile and two steaming mugs placed side by side. I'd take mine with cinnamon, Liam with a dash of cream and one sugar. We'd sit by the window, not always talking, but always present—his knee brushing mine beneath the table, his smile unfolding slowly like morning light.

Everything happened here, in my space. Liam never pushed, even though I knew he wanted me to see his world, his shelves of star maps and scattered notes, the telescope near his window, the worn couch he swore had a gravitational pull of its own. He'd invited me—more than once—but each time I smiled and said, "Soon."

He never asked again.

So we built our rhythm within the walls of my home. We cooked together in my tiny kitchen—if you could call it cooking. He tried teaching me how to bake, claiming that combining flour and stardust could cure anything. We bumped elbows, dropped utensils, laughed too loud when the pasta overboiled or when hi.

"galactic cookies"

collapsed into buttery craters.

Afterward, we'd drift to the couch, the one he claimed was "ours"

now, settling close under a shared blanket, the warmth of his body a kind of gravity I always gave into. We'd put on old films—black and white classics, or space operas he knew every line of—and sometimes we barely watched, too caught up in quiet conversation or comfortable silence.

And quietly, respectfully, my dad gave us space. Not in words but in all the ways that mattered. He began spending more time in the garden or at the library, leaving the house with a soft smile and a gentle pat on my shoulder. He knocked before entering a room that used to be his to walk into. Sometimes, he'd pass us curled up together and give Liam a nod that said, I see you. I trust you. Other times, he'd simply leave two mugs of tea outside my door, like offerings to the life we were building. He never made us feel watched. Instead, he offered us the silent kind of blessing only a father could give—distance and faith.

But despite that, we never made it past kissing. Not because the moments weren't electric—they were. Sometimes, his lips on mine felt like the world falling still, like time forgetting to move forward. But something in me wasn't ready for more. Not yet. There were still parts of me that flinched at touch, ghosts that lingered beneath my skin, memories I hadn't fully made peace with.

And Liam—sweet, patient Liam—never once pushed. Not even with his eyes. He didn't ask, didn't linger too long, didn't let the silence turn heavy with expectation. He simply held me close when I needed to be held, and kissed me slow when I forgot how to breathe. And when I pulled away, or let my hand fall from his, he always met me with the same soft look that said.

"Take your time . I'm not going anywhere."

Like the quiet kind of gentleman that doesn't announce his goodness—just lives it.

Aaron's letters and texts continued to arrive, though less frequently now—like echoes of a storm that had long passed but still carried the scent of rain. Each message was careful, measured, apologetic in tone, though never begging. Just... there. A reminder of a love I once held like a burning ember, now cool in my palms.

I didn't ignore them, not entirely. I read them quietly, in the stillness of the afternoon, usually alone, the way one might read old diary entries or faded postcards from a life that no longer felt like their own. And strangely, I wasn't angry anymore. Not the way I used to be. That blistering fury—the ache that used to rise like bile whenever I thought of him, of her, of all the betrayals stacked like dominoes—had dulled into something softer. Not forgiveness, not quite. But no longer a wound that throbbed when touched. Just a quiet sadness. A distant ache that only stirred when I allowed myself to remember.

My father remained the unspoken line of communication. I had told him about the letters, about the occasional gifts left on our doorstep—books Aaron knew I loved, a scarf I'd once admired in a shop window, a framed photo from a happier year. My dad never encouraged it, never scolded me either. When I asked him once, offhandedly, if Aaron seemed alright, he looked at me for a long moment before answering.

"He's... healing. Says he's in therapy. Says he's waiting for you."

I didn't respond. I didn't send messages back. I didn't ask for updates. I chose, instead, to focus on the life I was building now.

The day of the gala arrived with a crispness in the air that hinted at the approaching change of seasons. The nursing home had transformed for the occasion. Soft lighting bathed the common areas, casting a warm glow over the residents and their families. The scent of fresh flowers mingled with the faint aroma of perfume and cologne. A string quartet played gentle melodies in the background, adding to the atmosphere of elegance and nostalgia.

Liam was wearing a tuxedo that fit him like a secret he hadn't meant to share—sharp lines, midnight black, the kind of elegance that made heads turn for all the right reasons. He looked beautiful in the way that only someone truly kind can—his awkward grace still peeking through the polish, his smile unsure when he caught me staring.

And I did stare. I was wearing the yellow dress he had bought for me months ago, soft and flowing like sunlight held together by thread. I remember the way he'd handed it to me, bashful, saying it reminded him of a comet—"bright, rare, and a little impossible to look away from."

I had laughed then, told him he was getting wilder with the metaphors. Tonight, though, as the hem brushed the floor and his eyes lingered on me longer than necessary, I believed every word.

When we arrived at the party, his mother greeted us at the door. "Richard,"

she beamed, her voice warm with recognition, eyes bright as she reached for Liam's hands.

"You look so handsome tonight."

Liam didn't flinch. He never did anymore. He simply smiled, softly, and leaned forward so she could kiss his cheek.

"Hi, dear."

She was radiant in her own right—dressed in a deep lavender gown, her silver hair pinned neatly, her lipstick carefully applied. There was a regal grace about her, a kind of quiet dignity that remained untouched by time and illness. She stood tall, proud, as if the memory of who she had been still lived in her posture, if not always in her words.

I watched them, two souls quietly tethered by time and tenderness. A son and a mother bound not only by blood, but by memory, by ritual, by love that had weathered illness and silence and all the strange reshaping that grief demands. She still called him Richard. And Liam... he let her. He never corrected her.

It used to unsettle me—the way he vanished into that role with such ease. But now, watching the gentle curve of his smile, the way he tilted his head slightly so she could adjust his tie as if it were a long-practiced routine, I understood something quieter. It wasn't pretense. It was kindness. Mercy. Love in its purest, most patient form.

She turned her gaze to me then, her eyes warm with recognition, even if her timeline blurred.

"And this,"

she said softly, reaching for my hand.

"is your friend?"

Liam didn't miss a beat. "Yes,"

he said gently, his voice steady, a small smile blooming at the corners of his lips. "

This is June."

As the evening unfolded, I observed the delicate balance between honoring the past and embracing the present. Residents danced with their loved ones, some moving with the fluidity of memories long cherished, others with hesitant steps, guided by the familiar rhythm of a song. The caregivers moved gracefully among the guests, ensuring everyone felt included and cherished.

Just then, Liam steps forward and gently takes his mother's hand, inviting her to dance. At first, she smiles, moved by the gesture, but as the music begins, a flicker of uncertainty crosses her face. Her expression shifts—hesitation, a touch of confusion—and she pulls back slightly, almost shy, as if something about the moment feels overwhelming.

Sensing her discomfort, I lean in and quietly suggest to Liam.

"Why don't you take her to a quieter room? Somewhere more private—it might help."

He nods, understanding instantly, and leads her down a hallway to a more secluded space. There, only a few couples are dancing, the atmosphere dimmer, softer—more intimate. The quiet calm seems to settle her, and her shoulders relax as the music envelops them.

Liam places one hand gently at her back, the other clasping hers, and begins the steps of the routine he'd practiced so carefully. To his surprise and quiet joy, she begins to follow along—not hesitantly, but with confidence. Her feet find the rhythm, and her body remembers.

She remembers everything.

Moved by the moment, I lift my phone and begin recording discreetly. The two of them glide across the floor as if weightless, perfectly in sync. There's a kind of magic in the air, the kind that happens when memory, love, and rhythm come together. They aren't just dancing—they're sharing something rare and deeply personal. A moment suspended in time.

They seem to float, the world fading around them, lost in a dance only they understand. Suddenly, she stops mid-step. Her eyes—soft, cloudy with time—lock onto his with startling clarity. A tremble in her lip. Then, tears begin to well.

"Liam!"

she breathes, voice breaking.

I gasp. The moment hits like lightning. Something inside her has cleared—just for a breath. She remembers. Truly remembers. Not just the muscle memory of the dance or a fleeting smile, but him. Her son.

I freeze behind my phone, torn between lowering it out of respect and continuing to record what I know he will treasure forever. This isn't just a moment—it's a miracle.

Liam's eyes shimmer with tears as he takes a step closer, his breath catching in his throat. His voice, though soft, carries the weight of everything he's been holding in.

"Hey, Mom... you're back."

She blinks, as if startled by the clarity between them—by the light breaking through the fog. Her lips tremble as she reaches for his hand, the fragile steadiness in her grip belying the storm inside her.

"I'm so sorry, my little astronaut,"

she says, her voice a fragile whisper, each word soaked in heartbreak.

"I am really sick, ain't I?"

Her words hit him like a punch—because it's not just the truth of them, it's the awareness. That, for this brief moment, she knows. And somehow, that's both a gift and a wound.

Her eyes search his face, tracing the grown man standing before her as though seeing him for the first time and remembering the boy he once was. Her sorrow is quiet, but it runs deep—deeper than forgetting. Deeper than any distance time or illness can put between them.

"Some days,"

she continues, her voice trembling.

"I wake up and I know something's missing. I feel it in my bones. Like a shadow that follows me. A hole in my chest where you should be. But I can't name it. I can't find it. My mind won't let me."

She taps her temple softly, frustration flashing behind her tears.

"It locks the door, and I can't get in."

Liam's grip tightens around her hands, grounding her as if by holding on hard enough, he can keep her with him. His face is crumpled with emotion, eyes swimming, jaw clenched against the sob rising in his chest.

She gives a soft, broken laugh—part apology, part despair.

"I know I'm not always here baby. Not really. I know sometimes I look at you and I don't see you—not right away. And I hate that."

Her voice drops to a whisper, barely audible.

"I hate that I vanish right in front of your eyes... and I can't help it."

Her shoulders shake now, and Liam steps forward, wrapping his arms around her.

"I'm scared, Liam,"

she breathes into his chest.

"Not of dying. Not really. But of disappearing before I'm gone. Of leaving you without meaning to. Of forgetting the only people I've ever truly loved."

He clutches her tighter, like he could pull her back from the edge with sheer will.

"You're still here, Mom,"

he whispers, his voice thick.

"You're still here."

She pulls back just enough to look up at him, and for a moment—just a heartbeat—there's light behind her eyes.

"You've always been my light, Liam. Even when I'm lost... you guide me home."

The air between them is thick with unspoken truths, with years of memories both cherished and fading.

"I don't always recognize your face,"

she says softly.

"but I feel you. Like warmth in the dark. Like music I don't remember the lyrics to, but I still know how it makes me feel. That never goes away."

And Liam, voice cracking, responds.

"Then I'll be your song, Mom. I'll be the one you hum when the words are gone."

They stand there, wrapped in each other's arms, as if holding on could stop time. As if love—pure and aching—might be enough to carry them through the forgetting.

Her voice cracks as she places her hand gently over his heart.

"Liam... I need you to know—even when I can't remember your name, even when my mind fails me... my love for you doesn't. It never has. It never will."

He pulls her into a tight embrace, burying his face in her shoulder like he's trying to hold on to this version of her—to her—as long as he can.

"I miss you, Mom,"

he murmurs into her hair.

She closed her eyes and leaned into him, her face tucked into the familiar curve of his shoulder. And for a fragile, fleeting heartbeat, the fog lifted. The illness loosened its hold. In that stillness, they weren't patient and caretaker, not memory and loss—but simply mother and son, woven together by something deeper than time.

She clung to him with surprising strength, her arms trembling slightly from the effort.

"I love you, my boy,"

she whispered, voice thick with feeling.

"You and your father... you've always been my whole world."

Then, with a soft chuckle that shimmered like a trace of her younger self, she added.

"Now come on, tell me one of those cosmic facts. Like you used to. You remember, don't you? My curious little astronaut... always teaching me about the stars."

Liam smiled against her hair, a glimmer of both sorrow and joy in his eyes. And as he opened his mouth to answer, it was easy to imagine the boy he once was, kneeling at her feet with wide eyes and galaxy dreams—still there, still hers. Always. He says softly:

"There's this thing in astronomy called 'gravitational lensing.'"

She tilts her head slightly, a faint curiosity flickering in her expression.

"It's when the gravity of a massive object—like a star or a galaxy—bends the light of something even farther away. The light travels billions of years, but it gets redirected, curved around the object, and we see it here—even if it was never meant to reach us directly."

He pauses, his voice thick with emotion.

"That's how I feel about you. Even when you're far, even when you slip into places I can't follow, your love still finds a way to reach me. It bends around time, and memory, and illness. I still see you, Mom. I still feel you."

She's quiet, but tears roll down her cheeks. And though her hands tremble, she reaches up and cups his face gently.

"I don't always remember your name,"

she whispers.

"but I think I was born knowing your heart."

He smiles through his tears.

"That's because we're connected by more than memory. Something older. Something bigger."

She leans her forehead against his, eyes closed.

"The stars?"

He nods.

"Yeah. You're my origin point. My gravity. Even when everything shifts, even when time pulls us in different directions—I'll always bend back to you."

And in that moment, she smiles—not because she fully understands, but because she feels the truth of it. In her bones. In her soul.

For those few precious minutes, everything is as it should be. No illness. No fear. No forgetting. Just music, memory, and the unspoken rhythm of a bond that has withstood the erosion of time.

He leads; she follows—effortlessly. They move like a single body, like they've done this dance a thousand times before. And maybe they have, in ways that don't involve choreography but instead stories, birthdays, late-night talks, scraped knees and lullabies. Every step is full of history.

It was humbling to witness such a moment.

But then—without warning—something shifts. Her eyes flicker, then fade. The tension in her shoulders slackens. Her brow furrows with faint confusion, and she blinks slowly, like waking from a dream she can't quite hold onto.

She stops moving. Her fingers lose their grip in his.

"I'm tired,"

she murmurs, her voice a distant echo. She looks up at him, but her expression is different now—soft, but hollowed out.

"I think I need to lie down Richard."

It's as if someone has pulled the plug on the moment. The warmth, the presence—it drains from her all at once, leaving behind a gentle vacancy.

The moment is gone.

She doesn't notice the way Liam flinches, or the way his eyes fall like they've lost their anchor. But I do. I see it all. And quietly, instinctively, I stop recording. Some things aren't meant to be captured. Some heartbreak deserves privacy.

He doesn't cry. Doesn't speak. He just swallows, steadying himself. Then gently, almost tenderly, he takes her hand again.

"Okay, "

he says softly.

"Let's get you to bed."

She follows him willingly, docile and humming something wordless. Her body leans into his like a child returning to safety. He leads her down the hallway, her robe sweeping quietly over the floor. In the doorway of her room, he helps her sit on the edge of the bed. She yawns, already forgetting the dance, the room, the moment. But not, it seems, the comfort of his presence.

He tucks her in with the same gentle care of someone who's done it many times before—tender hands smoothing the blanket over her shoulders, adjusting the pillow beneath her head.

She smiles faintly, already drifting.

"Goodnight, Richard,"

she whispers.

Liam just nods, brushing a strand of hair from her forehead.

"Goodnight, my dear."

She closes her eyes. The room is quiet. Peaceful.

He closes the door and lingers, as if letting go might undo what they had just briefly reclaimed. As if stepping away might push her further into the dark.

"It is... bittersweet,"

he says, voice low and raw around the edges. He's staring at the floor at first, but then his gaze shifts to the closed door .

"Like something beautiful happened, but I can't hold onto it. Like it slipped through my fingers the moment I tried to keep it."

His hands are loosely clasped , thumbs fidgeting, restless with feeling.

"But still... I'm grateful,"

he smiles and adds, softer now.

"Tonight was amazing. It really was. I never thought I'd get something like that back, not even for a second. Thank you—for being there. For capturing it. For... everything."

"Well,"

I say eventually, a teasing smile curling at the corners of my lips.

"maybe tonight can still get a little more amazing."

He turns to look at me, surprised, eyebrows raised. "Oh yeah?"

he says, the corners of his mouth twitching upward.

"Why's that?"

I lean in just a little, my voice playful but warm, my eyes catching the low light.

"Take me to your house, Moonboy."

There's a pause—just a beat—where he processes the words, and then a slow, crooked smirk spreads across his face. It starts tentative, like he's remembering how to smile not out of politeness, but out of wanting to. That familiar twinkle flickers back into his eyes. Less sorrow now, more mischief. More life.

"Oh... Yes, ma'am,"

he says, grinning now.

"Let's follow the stars,"

then glances over his shoulder with a gleam in his eye.

"You'll understand soon enough why Superman has always been my favorite hero."

I laugh—an honest, surprised kind of laugh that bubbles up before I can stop it. "What?"

I ask, amused.

"Is this your way of telling me you secretly wear a cape under your clothes?"

He just shrugs, his smirk deepening.

"You'll see."

And just like that, the grief of the evening doesn't vanish—but it softens. We walk side by side down the hallway, not rushing, not running. Just moving forward. Somewhere between sorrow and hope, between memory and new beginnings.

To everyone living with Alzheimer's, and to those who love and care for someone who is—your strength, patience, and love are nothing short of heroic. This chapter is for you. Much love!