“Is there a world where you could be okay if no one remembered your songs or your name except for me?” “No,” he says without even a thought. And I was right. Crushed. He gives me a sorry look, touches my face ever. “Know I should say yes, Trouble, but no—Sorry.” There’s an urgent desperation in the eyes of the man I love who looks so very much right now like just a boy. “They need to remember me.” I don’t know why, but something about that feels like such a death sentence. I’m not sure for who. Him? Me? Us? Someone’s not making it out of this thing alive, I fear.
