Tiffany’s calls became increasingly frequent.  Chanyeol would remember in the middle of the night, stumbling away from her as she attempted to soothe him, would remember as they strolled through the park, jerking out of her grasp as she repeated who she was frantically.  And I would come in quick strides, would give Chanyeol’s shoulders a squeeze when he found his way into my arms.

                He would forget within hours, sometimes in minutes.  But there were the times I cherished dearly, the moments I relished, when he remembered me for days, and I would pretend all was well, that this was how we should have been.  It was almost ridiculous, how Tiffany and I swapped places almost daily, but if this was the only way I could have him, then so be it.

                But he was slowly slipping out of my grasp, his condition worsening by the week.  It wasn’t long before the doctors advised Tiffany to put him in a nursing home, and as she fidgeted with her fingers over coffee, I caught sight of the uneasiness of her eyes.  She had agreed, I realized, to place Chanyeol in the care of those who were more capable.  I suppressed the voice within me that nagged and clawed at my insides, telling me it should have been me to make the choice; suppressed it because I couldn’t blame her—because I would have done the same.

                “Hey,” I said cautiously, peeking into Chanyeol’s room.

                He turned from where he was sketching, and I relaxed at the grin on his face.  “Where’ve you been?  I wanted to give you a tour of the place.”

                I eyed him skeptically.  “I don’t think a nursing home requires a tour, Chanyeol.”

                “You make it sound as if I’m confined to some dreary room all day.”  He approached me and tugged on the sleeve of my sweater.  “Come on, I want to show you the garden.”

                I grunted out an “okay,” suddenly reminded that Tiffany could afford to keep him in such an impressive place, but it was difficult to remain bothered when Chanyeol reached for my hand without hesitation, a light blush rushing to his cheeks.  He led me out the doors, waving cheerfully at the nurse who checked on him every so often.  I felt my chest tighten at how happy he was, how absolutely content he was with living in a home.  This side of him was the one I knew best—this was the Chanyeol I had watched, had pursued, had made mine.

                I was so lost in my thoughts I jumped in surprise when he covered my eyes.  “I have a surprise for you,” he said.  I could hear the smile in his voice.

                “Oh?  And what could that be?”

                “You’ll see.”  He walked me slowly down the path, coming to a halt after a few turns.  He took his hands away and looked up at me expectantly.

                I quite nearly sobbed at the sight of it—the willow was tall and strong, its leaves flowing in the soft afternoon wind.  I couldn’t find the words to express whatever this was that began to bloom inside me, to suffocate me with joy and sadness, with relief and heartbreak.

                “Our substitute willow,” Chanyeol murmured.  He continued to look at me, studying my face carefully.  “Kris?”

                Just as I turned to look at him, I felt the tears begin to stream, and he smiled sadly at me, wiping his thumb across my cheek.  I blinked to refocus my eyes when his thumb stopped abruptly.  His hand no longer in mine, he stepped back, eyes enlarged.

                “Chanyeol?”  My voice was hoarse.  Perhaps a part of me had already sensed this.

                “Who are you?” he asked harshly, tone practically accusatory.

                “It’s me, Kris.”  I could hardly hear myself.  I knew he had already gone, had already reverted into Tiffany’s Chanyeol.

                He backed away, alert.  “Nurse?” he called out, and I felt myself choke.  “Nurse?”

                I had been wrong; he was Alzheimer’s Chanyeol now, Tiffany and I erased from memory.  His nurse came quickly, calming him and offering a sympathetic look in my direction before leading him back into the building.

                I grasped the trunk of the willow, my vision bleary as I dug my fingers into the bark and sunk to my knees, almost as if to strangle it, as if it could tell me why this was what had become of us, as if I could pray hard enough to save him.