@onelichtwolich​
Barry Bluejeans is sitting on a couch, in a place he’s pretty sure is his own home. He knows his name: Barry Bluejeans. But he’s forgetting... something important.
Important. Important like a birthday, maybe? Is one of those today? Whose would it be? Who does he... know? Oh, gods, does he know anyone? He must know people, did he forget? Why doesn’t he know?
He’s staring into the middle distance, gripping the armrest and shaking. There’s a sound from nearby, someone passing by the living room--familiar, she’s familiar. What’s her name? What are names people have? Barry Bluejeans. That’s not her name.
He should ask--he needs to ask, maybe if he asks for her name then he’ll remember the rest of... of everything stubbornly hiding in the corners of his mind. He needs to know her. He--he needs--how do you ask--?
“Um,” he manages a small sound, hopefully loud enough to get her attention. He’s terribly tense, and he doesn’t know if he can get up or go to her because if he moves he might lose more of what little train of thought he has left, and--and--please, not that. “Uh.”
