There is an art to hearing words that can't be spoken. Build out from the edges of the jigsaw. Gather the brightly colored bits. Piece them together. Match it against your friend and ask yourself, what's missing from this picture? Where have pieces, too painful to imagine, been removed from the picture? What's the gaping hole in the foreground? What words are too awful to say, even in the privacy of your own head? What if I forget her? What if [i]she[/i] forgets [i]me?[/i] What if this time it's different? What if one of us remembers and the other doesn't? You know those eyes, you've stared in them for years, seen the love burn in them, seen the pain, been their rock, been their everything, you know everything about them--and they don't even know your name. What happens when you look at someone--half of yourself, half of who you are, the one who knows you better than you know yourself--and see a stranger looking back? [i]How do you go on?[/i] Sweet brave Dolce. Who could fault you when you have so much more to lose than just who you are? But what can she say, when even he cannot approach the thought? She cannot, will not say it for you--will not force that upon you, will not harm you with that thought. But what can she say that will ease the pain at all? "I. I do not wish to forget who I am, Dolce. Or even who I was. I have learned so much and…" Her voice chokes itself to death on the words. Who will she be, when all that she has learned is wiped away? An idea sparks against another, and Alexa stands from the table. Where did--somewhere behind the spices. Between the ras al hanout and red chili--a small red folio, labeled [i]Recipes.[/i] A lifetime's worth of experience. Snatches of memory, scratched down and recorded to be shared later. Something that--she clutches the book to herself, and shudders--will soon be a stranger's. Someone else will have written down the interesting things to be done with apples, and the many uses for eggs. Someone else, someone different, will read the book and know nothing about what the ideas [i]mean.[/i] There won't be names or faces, just a list of ingredients and cook times. "It is no substitute for who we are," she admits, pressing the book into bear-mitten'd paws. "But we could… Could write…?" Gods' tits, what a stupid idea. Dear Alexa, I like you, and want you to know why and how. Dear Alexa, I hope you don't go back to who you were before. Dear Alexa, all written down, as if whoever she is will understand.