If Love is Forgotten, I will Still Be There

5

“Leslie, take your time. No need to rush back,” Coach Howard’s voice was just as warm and kind as always.

I smiled. “Okay, Coach. I’ll come see you at the training grounds once I’ve settled in for a couple of days.”

“No rush. You take it easy and have some fun first.”

I chuckled.

Professor Howard was my coach back when I was on the national team and the one who guided me on this path.

So when he recently started pestering me, saying I’d forgotten about him and urging me to visit, I had no choice but to agree.

But now that I was back, suddenly, he was in no hurry to see me.

What an unpredictable old man.

After hanging up the phone, I used one hand to prop myself up slightly, while the other hand gripped the key, trying to guide it into the keyhole.

This was an older neighborhood, with ivy climbing the walls.

It was also the same neighborhood where Jameson and I used to live, now mostly inhabited by the elderly.

The widespread use of the internet had rendered these old-fashioned mailboxes obsolete.

Like the lonely elderly residents, they had been abandoned and forgotten by time.

The strength in my single hand was unsteady, and my body wobbled.

In my panic, a voice suddenly called out, “Hey! Be careful, young lady!”

The voice barely faded when a middle-aged woman hurried over to me.

“Let me get that for you. It’s tough for you to manage on your own. If you fall, your mom’s going to be so worried.”

I scoffed silently.

My mom?

She wouldn’t be worried about me.

The kind-hearted woman took the key from my hand and opened the mailbox, pulling out a thick stack of letters and handing them to me.

“Here you go. Is this everything?”

I thanked her, but she waved it off with a laugh.

“No need to thank me. It was nothing!”

The woman glanced at the concert tickets I had just opened, her face lighting up with surprise.

“Is this… Jameson Hall’s concert ticket?”

I was startled. “You know Jameson Hall?”

Jameson was a pop singer-songwriter, but I never expected he’d gotten so popular that even the old people knew about him.

“Of course! My daughter just about lost her mind when she got these tickets the other day!”

Her expression was one of playful disdain, but there was a trace of affection in her voice.

In the end, she gave me a long series of reminders, like a mother would.

My nose tingled, and I felt an unexpected urge to cry.

I nodded to everything she said.

After declining her offer to help further, I controlled my wheelchair and left on my own.

Just as I turned the corner at the entrance of the neighborhood, a black van pulled in.

6

Back at home, I sifted through the stack of envelopes in my hands.

Every letter was addressed the same way: “To my dearest Leslie.”

I opened each letter carefully, taking great care with them.

Inside were tickets to every concert Jameson had ever held since he became famous.

There was always an empty seat at his concerts.

It was a VIP seat in the front row.

And all the tickets in my hands had that same seat number, without a single one missing.

Jameson’s concert tickets sold out fast.

Back before he became famous, there were only a handful of people at his very first concert.

Those few people had only come because I, sitting in my wheelchair, had handed out flyers on the street, begging them to come to a free show.

I still remember clearly: that day, he wore a slightly stained white t-shirt and a pair of jeans with frayed hems.

The sun blazed down mercilessly on that sweltering summer day.

His hair, damp with sweat, clung to his forehead, but it couldn’t hide the hope shining in his eyes.

He smiled repeatedly as he handed out flyers to passersby.

His voice rang out confidently: “My name is Jameson Hall. I’d love to see you at my concert.”

After each time he said it, he’d turn to me with a bright smile.

I smiled back, my eyes crinkling with joy, and added, “He’s Jameson Hall. Come see his concert. You’ve got to!”

In truth, the promotion didn’t work very well. No one had time to come to see an unknown singer perform, even if it was free.

After the first concert ended, Jameson tried his best to hide his disappointment, not wanting to spread his negative emotions to me.

But I noticed. I wanted to cheer him up, so I said, “Hey, that was like a private concert just for me! One day, when you’re famous, I probably won’t even be able to get tickets anymore.”

His smile returned, “That won’t happen. I’ll always save a special seat for you.”

He went from being an unknown singer with no audience…

To now, where his tickets sell out in a flash.

My superstar, finally too big to get tickets for.