Chapter 4 On the Fear of Being Forgotten
It was finally time for Peter to speak. The room seemed to shift.
It wasn’t dramatic, not outwardly. No one gasped. No one leaned forward. But Clara felt something, a quiet change in the air, like something subtle had taken its place among them.
She watched him closely, the way one watches a sentence unfold before it is fully spoken.
“My name is Peter Waters,” he said. “I’m eighteen years old.”
His voice was steady, unhurried. Not rehearsed.
“A year and a half ago, I was diagnosed with osteosarcoma.”
The word landed heavily, unfamiliar yet heavy.
“It took my legs,” he continued. “So now I use an iron one.” A brief pause. A faint smile. “Makes me part cyborg, I guess.”
A few people smiled politely, unsure whether they were allowed to laugh.
“I actually like it,” he added.
Clara didn’t smile. She was too busy noticing the way he stood, balanced, intentional as if he had already learned how to carry the weight of what life had taken and given him at the same time.
The mediator nodded thoughtfully. “Do you have any fears, Peter?”
Peter tilted his head slightly, as if the question amused him.
“Fears?” he repeated. “No. Not really.”
A pause.
“Except maybe oblivion.”
The word felt large in the room.
“I don’t want to live an ordinary life,” he said. “I want something… exceptional. And my fear isn’t death itself. It’s the idea that I might disappear before I get to live that life. That I won’t even be around long enough to try.”
He shrugged lightly. “That’s all.”
Silence followed, the kind that doesn’t rush to be filled.
The mediator cleared his throat. “Does anyone want to respond?”
Clara raised her hands. A few heads turned. Someone whispered her name, softly, as if unsure they had seen it correctly.
“Yes, Clara?” the mediator said.
She stood slowly, her heart pressing against her ribs. She hadn’t planned to speak. The words simply rose on their own.
“There was a time,” she began, “before humans existed. And there will be a time after us.”
Her voice was calm, but steady.
“Oblivion isn’t something waiting for us. It’s something that has always existed. Things begin. Things end. That doesn’t make them meaningless.”
She looked briefly at Peter not directly, but enough.
“If you’re afraid of being forgotten, the only way to face that fear is to accept that forgetting is inevitable. We don’t escape it by fighting it. We live anyway.”
The room remained quiet.
Truth often leaves people unsure of what to say.
Eventually, the mediator nodded. “Thank you.”
And just like that, the meeting ended.
Outside, Clara lingered near the entrance, watching Isaac and a girl she assumed must be Monica. They were wrapped around each other, laughing between kisses, repeating the same word again and again.
“Forever,” Isaac said.
“Forever,” Monica echoed.
Clara felt a flicker of irritation. Not jealousy, something quieter. Something uneasy. The way his hands moved, the way the word was used so freely. Forever sounded fragile in the open air.
She turned away.
“Hi.”
She looked up.
Peter stood beside her, smiling easily.
“How are you?” he asked.
“I’m fine,” she said.
He studied her for a moment, then said, “I feel like we’ve already shared a sanctuary together.”
She blinked. “What?”
He smiled wider. “Sorry. I talk strangely.”
She laughed despite herself. “What’s your name again?” Peter asked
“Clara.” she responded. “I mean your full name”
He asked. “Clara Sebastian” Clara responded
They stood there, the conversation unfolding naturally, until he fell quiet still smiling.
“What?” she asked.
“You’re beautiful,” he said simply. “I enjoy looking at beautiful things.”
Heat rose to her cheeks. She looked away.
Her eyes drifted back to Isaac and Monica. “Why do they keep saying ‘forever’?”
Peter followed her gaze. “It’s just their word. Their way of promising they’ll stay.”
She frowned. “And all the touching?”
He shrugged. “Some people love loudly.”
Then, without warning, he asked, “Would you like to go to the movies with me?”
She stared at him. “What?”
“Now,” he added.
She laughed, shaking her head. “I don’t even go out.”
He reached into his pocket and pulled out a pack of cigarettes.
Her expression changed immediately.
“You can’t be serious,” she said. “After everything you just said in there?”
“It’s a metaphor,” he explained quietly. “I keep the thing that can kill me between my teeth, and I don’t let it have the power over me. Control matters.”
She studied him, then sighed. “You’re impossible.”
Just then, her mother’s car pulled up.
“Clara!” her mother called. “I’m sorry I’m late.”
Clara hesitated then surprised them both.
“I’m not coming with you,” she said. “I’m going to the movies.”
Her moth
er blinked.
Peter smiled.
And Clara realized something had already begun.