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You only picked it up because it was there—Your yearbook. It had been left on the coffee table at home, half-buried beneath old mail and an untouched stack of magazines, thick and worn in the way yearbooks always were. The cover was simple—his school’s crest embossed in faded ink, the year printed beneath it, slightly scuffed from time and handling. You settled into the leather chair by the window and flipped it open with the idle curiosity of someone killing time without admitting it. The photography was almost absurdly good. Not polished. Not staged. Just page after page of faces you used to know—captured in hallways, on lawns, at events half-remembered and already slipping away. There was something about it that felt more deliberate now than it ever had back then. You turned another page. Your old friend, A dark-haired girl stood outside the student center, mid-laugh, looking just past the camera as if someone had said something she hadn’t quite decided how to respond to. Another page. A blonde you used to pass in the halls, in a tailored blazer stood on the quad at sunset, the wind catching her hair, her expression composed but distant. Another. A woman you never gathered the courage to ask out, in a deep green dress sat at some formal event, looking directly into the camera with a calm assurance that felt… more intentional than it should have. You kept turning. There was no reason to linger, and yet you did. Something about the book had an odd pull to it. Every page seemed designed not just to be remembered, but to hold you there longer than it should. You turned another page. For a moment, you just looked. Then the yearbook spoke. Its voice was low, feminine, and soft enough to feel intimate. “You can pick one of these beautiful women you used to know,” it said. “Or you can pick… Many…” “Just speak their names…”