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She knew it was inevitable. That she would forget. She knew it was inevitable and yet she hated it all the same. Dreaded it like the cruel punishment it was.
Lumine stared blankly down at the faded photographs she had laid out so carefully before her. The edges were disintegrating, the colours dull and washed out. Not that it mattered much, since they had all been tinted by the yellowing of the paper anyway. But at least these were still intact enough to be handled. The letters she had saved—pages and pages of handwriting, sometimes delicate, sometimes rushed, but always unexpectedly elegant—were in far worse condition. Most times, she could only afford to open the box she kept them in, eyes lingering over the topmost page, desperately trying to read the whispers of ink that still clung to the paper's deteriorating fibers. Even touching them was a gamble, and she knew they were laden with small tears at oft-folded creases, eager to rip. Some letters were more dust than they were paper. Some crumpled in on themselves, distorted from water damage, stained by teas or coffees or wines or tears.
So sure, the photographs were faded and crumbling and few in number, but at least she they still allowed her to lay them out like this without fear of them turning to dust between her cautious fingers.
Not that she even had a good reason to look at them anyway, at this point. Some photographs were so faded, they may as well have just been glossy sheets of paper—so old that it was difficult to see what the pictures were even of, never mind who could have possibly been in them. But in all her time alive, Lumine had never been able to shake her greatest fear: forgetting. And even though these old pictures did very little to help, she was convinced that they helped at least a little.
Lumine and her brother were no strangers to preservation magics though, and through their combined efforts, her little box of trinkets managed to last much longer than nature could have ever intended, and for that, at least, she was grateful. But time was perhaps the strongest magic of all, and she could only hope to obstruct it for so long. Some things took to staying around longer than others: metal rings he used to wear; a single earring with a pretty red gemstone; a dull jewel that she was sure used to be blue, once affixed firmly in its steel chassis, though it was liable to fall out any day now; a matching set of gold rings, embedded with crystals that still sparkled thanks to her diligent care; a bag of metal hardware that she knew once adorned a coat, though she had long forgotten what that coat looked like anymore—all that was left of it were scraps of fabric she was just as loathe to part with.
At one point, this box of keepsakes was fuller. There were once other things in here—things of cotton and wool and linen. And, if she thought hard enough, she was almost sure there were even flowers.
But there were no flowers today. Only various inorganic trinkets, photographs, and scraps, so threadbare and fraying, she could hardly remember what they used to look like in their prime. She only knew that she had a coat, a scarf, and some kind of soft toy, individually unidentifiable now. The only proof she had of their existence was this small pile of fabric.
How could she have forgotten? What part of her let her forget the voice that never failed to make her smile? Why did she let herself forget the eyes that made her heart stutter? Where had she left her memories of his laugh, his touch, his face?
Aether had tried to comfort her—told her that all she needed was time. Time and maybe some new experiences on some new planets, meeting new people, making new friends and new enemies.
"You'll see," he had said, like it would change something for her. Like there was some kind of truth that could be proven to her if she just allowed it to do so. Allowed it the time.
But time was a mistress as cruel as she was powerful, Lumine had found. All time did was take and take and take from her, offering nothing in return.
No solace, no comfort, no closure.
Just pain, heartache, and the vacuity of her undying consciousness.
Lumine wanted to scream. She wasn't sure what she hated more: time or her pathetic excuse for a memory. She could blame time all she wanted, but at the end of the day, wasn't it her who forgot? Wasn't she the one who kept letting him slip away from her?
If only her mind had its own lungs, its own throat, its own cardiovascular system. Lumine wouldn't have hesitated to reach in and choke it to death herself for its betrayal.
Gently, she stacked the photographs, one on top of the other again. She placed them gingerly back into their compartment in her box of keepsakes. It wouldn't do to keep them out for much longer, anyway. The more she left them exposed, the more they would decay, and she wasn't sure just how much more decaying her heart could take.
She tucked them away under the weight of two little shells, adorned with silver stars at their centre. Lumine couldn't remember what they were called, couldn't remember where she found them exactly either, but she knew she had always thought that they were the same blue as his eyes. She wondered if, after all these years, they, too, had lost their saturation and shine to time, or if she had always thought his eyes looked a bit matte and dull.
With shaky fingers, Lumine closed her box of treasures. Moisture, she had discovered, was the enemy of her preservation efforts, and she could already feel the telltale sting of moisture behind her eyes.
How much longer would it be before she forgot his name, too? Before she forgot how happy and content she was, tucked against the warmth of his body, his heart beating steadily in time with hers? Before she forgot his funny little idiosyncrasies that made her silly with adoration? Before she forgot the way he made her feel like home was in his arms on that tiny planet, galaxies far away from here?
And how much longer until she forgot the earth-shattering heartache, the overwhelming, nauseous tide of despair he had pulled her into and then left her to drown in alone?
Lumine wasn't even sure she could forget that last one, wasn't sure if she even wanted to forget, if only because it was still, fundamentally, a reminder of him.
She sniffled softly, closing her eyes. The tears threatened to spill, and though she was determined to keep them at bay, experience knew that she was never any good at it. If he were here, he would've told her to stop crying, to cheer up. He would've tried to lure her smile out with promises of food and bad jokes, with a shower of kisses and a hug that made it hard to breathe.
Probably, at least. She was probably sure that's what he would've done.
A heavy sigh escaped her, rough with grief, so fresh, one could've mistaken it for a week-long affair, when in reality, it had been years now. Centuries, maybe? Millennia, even? Lumine had stopped counting ages ago, as the number only seemed to cement him further and further in her past in a way that made her want to retch.
In some respects, Aether had not been wrong. Their subsequent adventures to new places with new people did eventually prove one thing to her: it could only ever have been Childe.
It could only ever be Childe.
No one had ever managed to stir her heart like he had. No one could make her breath catch in her throat or her pulse flutter with delight. No one called her comrade like it was a term of endearment, wrote detailed letters about her to their families, insisted on taking her on dates that people warned them would be boring. No one's ears visibly perked up when there was a bite on the line. No one tried desperately to hide the fumble of letting another dumpling slip through their chopsticks. No one's eyes narrowed menacingly when they were merely deep in thought.
No one else could be Childe, and that was everyone's biggest sin.
Lumine returned her box of keepsakes to the comfort of her wardrobe. Instead of returning to her desk though, she moved to her bed. It was barely noon, but she already felt exhausted and drained and like she needed the day to be over. She laid facedown against her pillow and tried to pretend it wasn't getting wetter by the second.
Lumine wasn't one to believe in soulmates, not really. The concept seemed a bit fanciful, especially for someone as long-lived as she was. But if they did exist, if it was true that fate tied two people together with love-shaped strings, that you could be meant for someone, physically, emotionally, cosmically—well then, Lumine was sure that her someone had long joined the stars in the night sky. It wouldn't have surprised her.