“Who are you?” she asked. And let me tell you now, those were the hardest three words I’d ever heard. It wasn’t really the words that were the issue. It was the fact that she was the one asking.

That, and the fact that… “I don’t know.” Until now, I’ve never needed to know.

Because she had promised. Promised me that she would always find me, always remember me. She did, I know she did. I’m not imagining things like I would later be told. I know her, and she knows me, except that she doesn’t.

I need her to remember. If she doesn’t, neither of us will ever know. But instead of remembering, she scoffs. “I wasn’t looking for a philosophical reflection, I was just looking for a name.”

For a moment, I am quiet. But then, barely louder than a whisper, I said, “3-22-36.” All I wanted in that moment was for her to know what the number meant. But the confused look in her eyes told me that she didn’t before she opened her mouth.

“3-22-36?” she echoes, “What’s that, some kind of passcode?”

“No,” I say, my tone tinged with sorrow. “No, it’s not a code.” Another moments silence passes before I say, “You really don’t remember me?”

“Should I?” she asked. I just walk away without replying, defeated.

That was the day I stopped keeping count. Because it was the day the one who promised to remember forgot. And if she can’t remember, then how could I? My mind is broken, always has been, we both have always known it.

The next time someone asked, “Who are you?” I paused. I still don’t know, but it’s not like I’m ever going to find out.

“You can call me Miracle,” I end up saying.