Unwritten Fate [BL]-Chapter 136: If I Forget, Let This Remembe

Camila sat with him a little while longer. No more talking — just the sound of the neighborhood outside the window: birds, a distant engine, a dog barking down the street.

Eventually, she pulled back gently.

"I’ll be in the parlor. Call me if you need something, okay?"

Billy nodded.

She touched his shoulder before leaving — light, protective — then quietly slipped out, closing the door behind her.

The silence returned. But this one felt... heavier.

Billy sat alone, elbows resting on his thighs, his fingers clasped together like he was trying to hold something in.

He stared at the floor. At the sunlight slanting through the window. At nothing.

His eyes didn’t move much, but inside, everything did.

He stood slowly and walked toward the window — the same one he looked out of this morning. The city was alive, breathing without him.

He leaned his forehead against the cool glass.

Then, under his breath—

"What if I forget him..."

The words came like a sigh — not meant for anyone to hear. Not even himself.

He shut his eyes.

Artur’s face flashed behind his lids — the soft gaze, the rough laugh, the sound of his voice when saying stay, and the silence when Billy didn’t.

Billy pressed his knuckles to his lips.

"What if I wake up and he’s gone... and I won’t even know who to miss."

He didn’t cry. But his eyes held that still, brittle kind of ache that came when tears weren’t loud enough.

He slid down the wall, sitting by the window, knees drawn up, his cheek against the edge of his palm.

He whispered, like a memory trying to survive:

"Don’t fade."

The soft golden light had started to fade, crawling down the walls like it, too, was retreating for the night.

Billy stayed by the window, unmoving for a long while — his thoughts thick, quiet, heavy like fog.

Then slowly... He stood.

He crossed the room and pulled out a small sketchpad from the drawer of his desk — one he hadn’t touched in a long time.

The paper was still clean, unbent at the corners. The pencil he took next trembled faintly in his fingers.

He sat down at the desk. No music. No distractions.

Just memory.

And he began to draw.

First the curve of the lake — wide and gentle — the one nestled quietly behind the village hills.

Then the tree that leaned just slightly, its branches always catching the sunset, half-dressed in hanging moss and golden leaves.

Then... him. ƒгeeweɓn૦vel.com

Artur.

Sitting beneath that tree.

Legs bent, arms resting on his knees — his face calm, not smiling, just still, like he was listening to the wind.

Billy drew the slope of his shoulders, the mess of his hair, the tilt of his head.

The pencil moved like a whisper — each stroke filled with care, like he was afraid to get it wrong.

Time passed. He didn’t notice.

When he finally set the pencil down, the sky outside had turned soft blue-gray, the hush of early night slipping in through the curtains.

He stared at the sketch — a single breath held in lines and shadows. It looked like him. Like them.

Billy reached for his pen, eyes stinging.

And at the corner of the paper, he wrote:

_"Some places stay inside you, even when the people are far away. But some people... they become the place.

And if I forget everything else — I hope this is the one thing that remains."_

"If I forget... let this remember."

His thumb brushed across the edge of the page — gentle, reverent.

A faint smile tugged at his lips. The kind that broke more than it comforted.

"Don’t fade," he whispered again. "Please..."

He closed the sketchbook slowly and held it to his chest.

Outside, the city kept moving.

But in this quiet room — for a moment — everything stood still.

Billy stared at the image — a quiet truth held in graphite and silence, as if memory had borrowed his hand for a while.

He reached for his pen.

And at the corner of the page, he wrote:

"If I forget, let this remember."

Simple. Small. But it carried everything.

He stared at the words for a long moment. Then slowly closed the sketchbook, holding it gently to his chest like a memory too fragile to fold.

Outside, the city stirred beneath evening light — but in this room, time stayed still, just for him.

And just for Artur.

The dining room was softly lit, the overhead chandelier casting a gentle golden hue across the long table.

The plates were set with quiet precision — roasted vegetables, seasoned rice, baked chicken, fresh bread rolls still warm from the oven.

Camila passed the juice pitcher around, humming something under her breath.

"I swear the bread tastes better when you’re back," she teased. "Or maybe Mom’s just showing off."

"It’s not showing off when it’s for my son," their mother replied with a smile, handing Billy a napkin. "You always liked the rosemary rolls."

Billy nodded, the smile he gave small but real.

"Still do."

Across the table, Mr. Sandoval ate with the same careful poise he brought to everything else. Silent. Measured.

The conversation floated gently. Camila made a few jokes, their mother laughed softly, even Billy offered a chuckle or two.

It felt... almost normal.

Then, as the clatter of forks quieted and plates began to empty, Mr. Sandoval placed his napkin on the table.

"I spoke to Eleanor."

The table stilled slightly — like air leaving the room.

Billy looked up, but didn’t flinch.

"You’ll meet her tomorrow," his father continued, voice smooth, final. "She’s free in the afternoon. She’ll come by the house."

Camila glanced at Billy quickly, concern flickering in her eyes.

Their mother sat straighter.

"Carlos—" she began, her voice tight.

"It’s just a meeting," he said firmly. "They were engaged. It’s not unreasonable—"

"He doesn’t remember her!" his mother snapped, sharper now. "This isn’t about being reasonable. This is about forcing him into something he’s not ready for."

Billy raised a hand gently.

"Mom... it’s alright."

She turned to him, eyebrows pinched in frustration.

"Leon—"

"I’ll meet her," Billy said softly. "Just meet. That’s all."

The room fell still again.

Mr. Sandoval nodded once.

Their mother exhaled, clearly not satisfied but letting it go — for now.

Camila sipped slowly, voice dipped in sarcasm. "Perfect. I’ll make popcorn. Maybe throw in a script."

Billy smiled faintly, his gaze falling back to the plate in front of him — half-finished food, cooling now.

It’s just a meeting. But deep inside, something twisted. What if she remembers the version of him that never really felt like him?

He pushed the thought away. For tonight, there was still family. Still warmth. Still peace — even if fragile.

Plates clinked faintly downstairs, voices muffled like background music behind closed doors.

A distant sound of the maid clearing the table echoed briefly, then faded into stillness.

Billy walked upstairs with slow steps. The house felt quieter at night — not empty, just... expecting. Like the walls held their breath when his father spoke.

He opened his bedroom door, but didn’t go in right away.

Behind him, footsteps padded up the stairs.

Camila.

"You okay?" she asked, leaning lightly against the doorframe, her voice low so it didn’t echo.

Billy gave a small nod. Nothing certain in it.

"He means well," she offered gently, "but Dad only knows one way to care: control."

Billy gave a tiny smile, more tired than amused.

"Maybe that’s what I needed once."

Camila crossed the space between them and leaned against the wall beside him, their shoulders nearly touching.

"You don’t have to meet her."

"I know but still...."

"But still you will anyway."

He finally looked at her, eyes soft, searching hers.

"I want to understand what I left behind," he said. "Even if I don’t take it back."

Camila’s expression softened. She nudged him lightly with her elbow.

"That’s a very ’main character in a healing drama’ thing to say."

He laughed — small, but real.

"Guess I’ve been living one."

"Yeah. With a hot love interest in a village, tragic separation, mysterious amnesia, and a dramatic family arc." She smirked. "You’re practically a series."

Billy laughed again, the tension breaking just a little. He looked down the hallway toward his father’s study, then back at Camila.

"If tomorrow feels wrong... will you stop it?"

"Leon." She touched his hand gently. "I’ve got you. No matter what your memories say."

He nodded.

"Thanks for being the part I don’t want to forget."

Camila’s throat tightened slightly — she covered it with a smile.

"Now stop saying sweet stuff or I’ll cry and ruin my mascara."

Billy stepped into his room, but left the door ajar.

Camila stood there a moment longer, watching, her smile lingering.

Then she turned, the hallway light casting her shadow long behind her.

Inside his room, Billy sat on the edge of the bed, fingers brushing over the edge of the sketchbook still resting near his pillow.

He hadn’t opened it since earlier, but the weight of it was enough — like holding on to something steady in a world that kept shifting.

The city lights flickered faintly through his window. Somewhere below, a car passed, and then silence again.

He lay back slowly, staring at the ceiling, listening to the hush of the house.

"Don’t fade," he whispered once more, barely audible — more to himself than anything else.

Then he closed his eyes, not in sleep, but in hope — that tomorrow, even if the past knocked on his door, he’d still remember who he was becoming.

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