Listlessly, I admit, I was sitting in a hospital room. Completely lost in a way I couldn’t remember I’d ever been in my life. Though, there wasn’t much life to remember and whatever I could remember I couldn’t grasp onto at all. I’ve only lived 17 years, and I don’t recall anything of the first 7. Even after that, I don’t remember much of the past last week ー unless it was something I intently cared about. I’m not the best with memory. I don’t know if I can just say it’s all a disorder, but nothing seems to be memorable enough to stick. The idea that I have lived 17 years and can only remember around 2 years combined or less is a disturbing thought to ponder. Nonetheless, I struggled for some minutes to try to recollect how the moments had played out when I was taken to the hospital. All I could remember was watching blood splatter against the plain white sink and stain the water as I coughed monstrously and wobbled where I stood. After a few gaps in memory, I found myself bound to a hospital bed. The walls were pearly white and seemed disturbingly clean for a room that so many have died in. The gown I was in was white too, adding to the eerily clean aesthetic, which came in stark contrast to my usual pastel hoodies and black jeans. I don’t think I like white. It’s hardly even a color in my mind and it’s not what I’m used to. I prefer dark wet asphalt on the sidewalks or the image of rooftops at night. The memories that I do have always had that sort of a setting. They serve as remnants and memoria of the brazen antics I’d use to have some sense of control of what I do remember of my life.

         Of course that hasn’t always been appreciated by my dad. He’s a Korean immigrant who gained a sum of wealth here in New York City through businesses and Wall Street firms. He looks like a businessman, too. He always has a suit on and has slightly oily hair. He’s always moving with a scurrying walk and a Blackberry phone in hand. I don’t know that I trust his wealth but I know I live on it, and probably would’ve ended up inheriting it. He knows pretty damn well by now that I reject his money and stay out with my friends partially to get out of the house. Truthfully, I never wanted my life to be a shadow cast from my father’s, and the moments that I can remember have always been unique or stupid in their own right. Almost nothing I can remember in my life has been stable, and for most aspects of life I liked it that way. I can’t say I had too many long lasting friends, though. For a long time I seemed to drift from group to group every week and I didn't always remember their faces. I would meet people in each group that I invaded and bring them out to my nightly crusades to test their limits. It was always fun to bring newcomers to the rooftop of the school or to the pool at night when it’s closed and see how they react to the stints of danger. Some stare up a wall with a look of hesitance and need encouragement to keep climbing up gates and gutters. Some take to it with faux confidence, perhaps trying to impress someone. Every once in a while someone would find me more interesting than most and would stick with me, and I made some friends.

         I don’t remember how I met everyone in my circle, but there are a few that I really trust. Jeremy. He’s tall with fair skin and medium-length, dirty-blonde curly hair. He wears stereotypical skater clothes, Thrasher logos and black ripped jeans. He’s always been a quiet character but never introverted. He would take me to parties whenever he could and would always enjoy being part of the conversation, even if he didn't say much. It was something about his confidence and charm and his nature to bring out the best in people that allowed him to meet so many people with the fewest words possible. He’s been with me for as long as I could remember, maybe even past. There’s a sense when I see him that I can pick up with him wherever we left off and a closeness that makes him feel oddly familiar. It sounds cheesy but I could swear I’d known him in a past life.                          

         I remember I met Riley on a rooftop as punk music blasted in the background. That’s about all the context I remember from that moment. It’s rather fitting, seeing how Riley and my friendship would end up playing out. They’re maybe my favorite to listen to music with. They and I would gossip in whispers in class and ramble about punk groups we knew best, like a middle-school emo kid’s notebook come to life. It’d often be at the expense of our classmates, who would become increasingly annoyed as our earbuds leaked Nirvana and other assorted grunge constantly. I can specifically remember the time they decided it’d be a brilliant idea to play punk music over the school PA while I was making a presentation to the class. I burst out laughing the second I heard it and was bewildered by how it happened. I met Riley after class looking proud of what they’d done.

         One of my last really close friends that I’d met in high school was Mayna. She was different, and I do remember how I met her. Riley brought her along when we went out downtown and I remember enjoying laughing with her in every conversation. When we sat out in a little Japanese restaurant she sat next to me on the couch by the tables and I felt my body tense up a bit out of nervousness. She took no notice and remained smiling and told me about the time her crazy family had brought her to this restaurant and had an argument over the waiter’s pronunciation of some item on the menu. My eyes squinted as I smiled and laughed with her and felt the creases in her smile mirror my own face. Perhaps a bit cliché, but I was focusing on her eyes. They were a bit grey but had tints of green, and her hair was bleached and white-blonde at the tips but wavy brown up until there. It reached down just past her shoulders. She had a kind face but with a darker and edgier aesthetic, and since our group couldn’t be any more stereotypically punk, she fit right in. Ever since then I found myself to be a bit attached, for obvious reasons, and Riley caught on so she stuck with us since. Memories clearly aren’t my strong suit, but they intrigue me.

         My earliest memory is probably the most elusive, unsurprisingly. I constantly feel as though I’m fighting my own brain to remember something earlier. The earliest I know of was when I was seven. I was running past the halls waiting for my dad to catch up to me as he struggled to both manage his office calls and make sure I didn't break anything in the house. We lived in the suburbs at the time and I clearly did not like the house. Most of the house remains nondescript for me but I remember red and gold being common themes, and much too many doors for seven-year-old me to count. My dad was struggling to put on his tie as he yelled, “Michael, stop running!” I paid him no mind and continued waddling as fast as I could. It’s not a significant memory, I suppose, but one thing stood out. I was running towards my mom. She was tall and slim with long, dark brown hair and a wide smile that showed all her teeth. I don’t get to see her often. My parents never married and she mostly kept to herself, but when she did come by she always seemed so happy, at least compared to my dad. She did pretty well herself and had an active dating life, but I always wondered if part of the reason she was so happy in contrast was because she didn't have to deal with me as a responsibility. It never made me think less of her—she made her decisions and lived how she chose, but it gave me a lot of admiration for my dad. He wasn’t perfect but he did a lot for me and it feels wrong that he puts so much more into my well-being but always seemed to get the short end of the stick between my two parents. I like to think I remember this moment because I feel a bit guilty that I, as a kid, was so immature as to run up to my mom and neglect my dad as he struggled. Maybe I’m just looking in too deep.

         I woke up in the hospital again to Mayna shaking me awake. She and Jeremy were standing on either side of me and she looked at me with that wide smile she had. Her hair has changed a lot over the few years I’ve known her, but it always seemed to be at the same length and have the same waves. Her hair was fully bleached blonde and her eyes twinkled as though smiling. Jeremy had on a cheeky grin and quipped at me, “Took you long enough, I was about to start poking you with the doctor’s toys.”

         “Aren’t you gonna buy me a drink, first?” I groggily muttered in an attempt to respond.

         “There’s the witty egghead,” I heard from the corner of the room. I sat up and turned my head to search for who it was and wasn’t much surprised to find Riley. They gave me a smirk and pulled up a chair next to Mayna.

         “Mayna, they’re bullying me,” I looked at her with pleading eyes. She chuckled and looked away with a bit of a smile, which was a mission accomplished enough for me, she always blushed easily. She looked towards Riley and Jeremy and the three of them began talking as I slowly fought to retain consciousness.

         Riley put on some Pixies as I started to get lost in my thoughts. They kept their hands on me or glanced at me every once in a while to remind me they were there but they knew my thinking face when they saw it. I looked up at the back of Mayna’s head as she spoke to Riley and Riley must have caught a glimpse of me fawning over her just a bit. Riley’s eyes met mine from the side of the back of Mayna’s head and they smirked at me. I think everyone in the room could read my face at that moment, and I don’t know if I really minded. There was a lot to unpack.

         Mayna and I had dated for about fifteen months. I think everyone sort of saw it coming. By then we’d known each other for a year and gotten playfully affectionate with each other. It didn't come as a surprise to anyone when I pulled her aside one night at an outside restaurant (which was closed but that didn't stop us). We sat front to front on one of the benches near the street lights. It was a quiet part of town and there wasn’t the usual blaring traffic or business. The only close lighting was an outdoor fireplace that we lit ourselves with a lighter that Jeremy found on the ground. The orange glow gave her peachy skin a sort of dancing glow that emanated warmth, but that might’ve just been the heat of the fire getting to me. After a second of me stuck in a freeze-frame trying to put my words together she looked at me with a smile and let out a cute chuckle and asked me, “What’re you trying to say?”

         “I- I’m working on it.”

         She let out a higher-pitched and more audible of a laugh this time which left me beaming uncontrollably. She always admired me when I stuttered but I think it was only then that it dawned on me that she found it cute. I let my hands, now clenched into a fist by anxious reflex, shakily unravel themselves as they reached towards hers and held them daintily. I hurriedly made attempts to collect myself and stared down at her hands in mine. After a few moments of feeling her gaze on mine I looked up toward her eyes as I watched the fire crackle there. She smiled, knowing what was coming next, and that only made me more nervous. Through my dumb smile I just barely managed to ask, “Do you wanna be my girlfriend? ‘Cause I really wanna be your boyfriend.” She smiled at me gleefully and let out just one happy, excited word in response: “Okays.”

         However, in my (not so) all-encompassing experience of life, it never takes too long for good things to end. I was diagnosed with cancer pretty late in the cycle, when I was sixteen. Being so late into the process, I had little hope that I would show any recovery soon despite the doctors’ reassurances. It was only shortly after that I had let the existentialism cross and loiter in my thoughts. I didn't eat as much and I slowly grew paler as time went on. I still, for a while, made feeble attempts to hide what was going on, but not forever. Everything just takes time, and I knew who I had to tell.

         I was out at a park with Mayna and I laid my head on her chest (it felt like a pillow) and wrapped her arms around me as we both laid against a tree trunk. She was a fair bit shorter than me but I didn’t mind the comfort from being the little spoon and she seemed to enjoy not being completely confined to normal relationship standards. She played with my hair a bit as we talked and every once in a while I’d look up to see her face and ruin her process of braiding, partially intentionally. I tried to make it a happy moment but it became difficult to bear my thoughts, realizing slowly that though I remembered Mayna and my relationship strongly, I still struggled to remember big parts of my life.          There’s really no right way to tell someone you’re going to die. Even if not for certain, it’s not something that leaps out of your mouth, rather, it curls your tongue. She noticed my smile fade, first from the creases in my lips and then from the crow’s feet by my eyes. She held my face in her hands. She seemed to be echoing my own face’s dismay, and her sympathy was heart wrenching. It hurts to see her mirror my frown.

“Baby, what’s wrong?” She almost pleaded when she asked and her lips pouted.

         I don’t remember the full conversation. Partially because I didn't want to. My hands shook as I struggled to tell her about the diagnosis. I kept averting my gaze down at the grass but I couldn’t help but look up at her. There were tears coming down her cheeks and I was trembling as I held her. I didn't want her to have to be so emotionally attached to me if there was a real chance of me dying. I decided it would be best to break up, but we stayed holding each other until night fell across the park. I laid her head on my chest and she turned her face in towards me and I could feel the tears on my shirt. I remember her. I remember our relationship. I remember being in love with her.

         I realized that the memories were filling me with nostalgia and guilt. I quickly dismissed my thoughts and looked back at my group of friends in an effort to read their faces and catch up with the conversation. Mayna was clutching onto my hand and looked at me with those same pleading eyes. Just as Jeremy began to open his mouth, my dad came into the room in suit and all, seemingly having just broken up a meeting. Though I didn't love being the son of a businessman, I did very much appreciate his dedication to me. My friends all left the room and smiled and waved at me as my dad sat next to me. 

         “How are you, Bowie?” he asked me, though my attention focused on his hurried tone of voice. I met the concern on his face with a weak but genuine smile.

         “Thank you for everything you’ve done for me,” is all I managed to say.

         “What?”

         “Memories are elusive, but I think I know by now what is and isn’t worth remembering. There is no memory more deserving than the night after… after I learned I had cancer. I watched from the roof of the school as your headlights searched the parking lot, turning frantically. I remember when they met my eyes.” Tears started rolling down my cheeks a bit, and I don’t normally cry. “My legs dangled off the rooftop and they began to feel heavy. A Pandora’s box of thoughts crossed my mind and my arms shook my whole body violently until I saw you step out of the car… I know I stayed silent the whole way home but when I heard you call out to me, ‘Bowie’, that meant everything in that one fleeting moment.” He stood there dumbstruck, inhaling deeply but unsteadily. The concern on his face remained in his eyes but the rest of his face slowly struggled to make a smile.

         “O- of course, Bowie.” His stutter took him by surprise, and I think the moment itself did, too. I didn't normally show much affection towards him, or anyone, and it’s something I’d really grown to regret.

         “I don’t remember every moment with you. I don’t remember all the birthdays we celebrated and I don’t remember anything much, and that’s scary as fuck, but I know I trust you.” There was a long pause after I said that as he struggled to get his words together.

         “I love you” is what I believe his exact quote was. I smiled and turned my face into the pillow to keep from showing too much. He took notice and let out a chuckle. He sat by me that whole night. I’ll remember that.

         He called me “Bowie” that night when he shouted at the roofs, the moon in the same direction. I shook where I sat as that word hit me and resonated and I found a thousand fleeting memories. Lyrics had swarmed my head. “Oh no, love, you’re not alone!” That single name means the world to me, but it’s not technically my name. Legally, my name is Michael Ahn, but the name Bowie has a long story that will always mean infinitely more to me. 

         When I was 11 I went under tremendous stress and it erased nearly all my memories in one fell swoop. It was then that I quickly learned the term “dissociative amnesia,” and knew that it had changed my life. To this day, I don’t remember what that stressor was, and I wanted nobody to tell or remind me of what it was. That single thing changed my life and I would do anything to avoid it. For the next few days and weeks, I found that I could remember anything academic easily but I couldn’t remember learning any of it. Much more severely, I couldn’t remember who my own parents were or who I, myself, was. I didn't even remember my own name; that’s when I chose one for myself. Bowie. I chose that name as I woke up with no memories and with a strange man in front of me (who I soon was told was my dad). By my side was David Bowie’s “The Rise and Fall of Ziggy Stardust” album, and it was one of the first things I saw in my new life of memories. Over time, I’d regained some of my past, but not all. That moment of running up to my mother was one of the first memories I could recall and that was the one that taught me my name was Michael and who my mother was. I still chose to keep going by Bowie, despite what government records told me. After the amnesia hit, my mother and I had a strange relationship that felt more like friends that live too far apart. Whenever she would come to visit she would take me to hit the city with her and made every attempt to entertain me. It was fun, no doubt, but I never really developed a strong bond with her. Over time it felt like we grew more distant until I rarely saw her, and I’m not sure if it ever really mattered; I had others to keep me company.

         A few days later I was sitting in the hospital room with Jeremy and Riley as we waited for the doctor to come in. Jeremy kept a smile on my face and reminded me of some fun times that he and I had with each other. He seemed especially fond of the one time we got caught on the school rooftop at night blasting Nirvana aloud and had to run across the tops of the buildings to avoid being seen. He told me about the time he drove us into the football field and raced around in it. All these reckless and downright stupid memories that we had made me realize something: I do have a memorable life. I don’t remember it all and people need to show me pictures or tell stories to help remember, but I know that my friends know who I am and they had plenty of fond memories with me. Mayna came in and sat on the side of the bed and smiled at me with a flirty wink in her eyes. We’d gotten used to being just friends but I don’t think either of us fully lost feelings. My dad found his way into the room hurriedly, coming shortly after Mayna. It was at that moment that I think I knew: I was content. I didn't remember my whole life, and that frightened me, but I trusted the people around me, and that meant everything. I was unsure about how my life would look going forward, or how much forward it would go, but I was willing to fight to stay alive for them, and even if I lost, I lived well. I held Mayna and Jeremy’s hand and Riley sat on the bed with me and my dad sat in a chair as we all waited for the doctor to arrive.