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I spotted a nineties-style arcade.
Tristan was the kind of guy who had zero memories of his life, except for one—a glimpse of his childhood. A glimmer of hope bloomed in my chest.
This could be a total bust, but it was my only lead. If he hadn’t gone into a building, I should have caught up to him by now.
I entered the arcade and took in the old black carpet with florescent geometric shapes on it, the binging and other electric sounds, the lack of lighting beyond blinding screens. It smelled like cleaning products and used Band-Aids and rubber inflatables. It reminded me of elementary school birthday parties, except there didn’t seem to be any people here.
I wandered around a bit.
In a dark corner in a small alcove in the back, I found him. He was standing in front of a Space Invaders arcade cabinet, scrubbing the palms of his hands over his eyes.
He slumped over, his shoulders hunched and shaking. His breaths were heavy. And his expression—completely distraught. My heart broke for him.
“Tristan,” I said softly, stepping a step closer.
His eyes met mine, and there was a redness there, a vulnerability I had never seen in him.
“I’m not Tristan,” he said, voice strained. “The vest isn’t mine. Everything I thought I knew is a lie.”
He looked like a wounded animal, feral and raw. The pressure of getting this right, saying the right thing, was so heavy. All I wanted to do was touch him, hold him, and promise everything would be alright.
“You have memories,” I said. “You remembered your mom and the Indian food. And this place…have you been here? Why here?”
“I used to come here when I was a kid, while my mom was at work. I didn’t remember until I saw it.”
I nodded. “No matter what, all of that is still real. Those memories came from you. They aren’t things we guessed based on what you were wearing. Those memories are yours and no one can take them.”
I stepped closer.
He flexed his fingers at his sides like he wanted to touch me as much as I wanted to touch him.
“You remembered the carnival, how we met the first time,” I said.
His face was illuminated by the flickering glow of the machine, the contours and harsh angles framed by the shifts of soft shadows and colorful light.
My fingers trembled as I reached tentatively toward his face. He tensed, flinching at the contact, but then leaned into my touch.
His cheek felt rough from stubble, and warm under my fingertips. With my other hand, I touched his arm—firm and strong. The contact was minimal, and yet it felt like the force of a black hole hung between us, stealing the air from the room and inevitably pulling us together.
“I remember your laugh.” He swallowed. “The startled look on your face, the rabbit costume.”
“That was all real. Just like every moment we’ve shared since—coffee at the diner,Wheel of Fortune.” The breath whooshed out of my lungs. I whispered, “Samosas.”
His gaze turned to my lips.
Sparks carried from my lips to my tongue, down throughout my body. Every inch of my skin became aware of the limited space between us, every nerve raw and craving his touch.
“Even if we don’t know your name,I know you,”I said. “You’re broody and fun and thoughtful and sweet.”
He stepped closer, closing what little distance remained between us. Our bodies hovered an inch from each other.
I slid my hands down his arms, feeling the firmness of his biceps, the sinewy form of his forearms. I put a hand over the center of his chest and felt his racing heartbeat that matched the fluttering rhythm of my own.
In the back of my head, a little voice reminded me that I didn’t date. But that’s not what this was. This was not a relationship. This was one single moment in the vastness of space and time. This was two people exposed and untethered.
And I knew what I wanted. I wanted to make him feel better, to show him that everything would be all right, because no matter how lost he was, he could reach for me.
“This is real,” I whispered.
