Eighteen.

I'm never going to forget that night. Awake at 3:00 am, talking to a little girl about everything, starting from the deteriorating quality of cornflakes to financial crises.. Finding things in common, like how we both really, really want jobs in ice-cream parlors where they give you two free buckets as welcoming presents. We talked about all that. Everything to keep my mind working and not focusing on..well..yeah. She didn't know what was up. But we talked. About ice-cream and cornflakes and paatishapta pithas.

I'll never forget that night. Or maybe I will. Maybe one day it won't even be at the back of my mind. It will just be ..gone. I won't remember it.

The next day was far more extreme. Little girl had bigger stuff to do than keep me busy with vibrant talks of ice-creams, cornflakes and paatishapta pithas, of course. But she called. She asked if she should drop by. I said no. I don't always like..sympathy (is that it?). I will never forget that day. Never.

But, then again, who knows?

A few days later we found a word. Lypophrenia. We self-diagnosed our pathetic selves. God bless you, kid. You're not pathetic. But we were, in that moment; we both really were. And a lot of people are. We figured that out too. But there was a choice. I made one.

And I went into..remission (note: improvised vocabulary).

I'll never forget the measures taken. But..who knows? Maybe I will struggle to place a finger on the memory one day. Maybe it'll be like an annoying itch out of  reach. Maybe then I'll stop trying to remember. And one day it'll be gone. Just like the results of the measures are gone right now. Relapse.

If there's one thing I've learned, one day you will not be seventeen anymore and things will just be .. gone.