I had been reading a book. I can't remember what it was. Mustn't have been very good, in that case. I had just turned a page, not really paying attention to the words, when I spotted one phrase that jumped out at me.

It said 'Tempus Fugit.'

I remembered something, just a little spark of memory, a tiny burst of life from years past. Not that it was anything like that dramatic. Just something on the tip of my tongue. I remembered a voice, saying that to me – 'Tempus Fugit'. And a face. A kind face, or at least one that tried to be kind, for my sake.

I thought I had liked that face. I thought I had liked that person, vaguely. It was difficult to remember entirely. But I could still picture snatches of dialogue, brief events, sensations brief yet intense.

For instance, the cold of the biting winter air on a dark night. Standing in a road, with that face next to me. And that voice. Sad but kind. 'The thing is, I'll remember you. But you won't remember me, will you? You'll go on, doing whatever you want to do, being you. And I'll be gone. I'll just fade away inside your head until I'm just a fragment of a memory. But I don't want that.'

And then my voice: 'Of course I'll remember you. How could I not?'

'Promise?'

'Promise.'

'Thank you'.

And then a long walk through the night, always with that face by my side. That face I could rely on. I liked to see that face. Although I never let on. They understood. At least, I think they did. We never really spoke about things like that.

I remembered something else. A summery day, in a field. Golden ears of corn on wavering stalks, hesitant in the wind, in the next plot over, with me sitting upon dry grass. A deep blue sky above, a couple of clouds whisking along in the upper stratosphere. Crickets singing out loud. The sudden feeling of a hand on my shoulder. Surprising. Gentle, but with a firm grip anchoring us to reality.

'Are you okay?'

'Yes,' I reply.

'Because you don't look okay.'

'Trust me, I'm fine.' A pause.

'Funny sort of fine when you look as if you've been crying.'

'No.'

'Okay then.' We stand there for a while. 'At the very least, you need a rest.'

'Yeah, probably.' Another pause. 'Look,' I say, 'I'm sorry-'

'You don't need to be.'

'You sure?'

'Yeah. Trust me, it's cool.' I try to say something, but it catches in my throat. The hand turns me around, facing that sad smile, and they hold me there until I have no more tears to cry.

Then, a day inside, just messing around drawing something on a big A3 piece of paper. That face, I notice, is subdued, the smile strangely absent. Instead the eyes in that face are haunted, hollow. The small sound as I place my pen down upon the paper is loud in the quiet that envelops us. I wait quietly for a bit. Abruptly they speak up.

'It's all so pointless sometimes.' I say nothing. I know this mood. 'It's all just wasting away, isn't it? Just… time passing. It all goes so fast, doesn't it?' I can't see what their hand is drawing on the paper, in harsh ink. 'Tick, tock, tick, tock, oh look, you're an adult, oh, now you're middle-aged, now you're old, now you're in a flimsy box beneath the earth. No, scratch that. You're not anywhere. Your body is under the ground, yes, but you? Your mind? You're gone. Just… gone. Vanished into thin air. And why? Because time. Because bloody time. The thing that lets us live is the thing that lets us die. It's just… I hate this. I really hate this.'

'Perhaps it's best if you don't think about that.' They spin around angrily, revealing the drawing on the tabletop. It's a picture of a watch, with wings. Above it in thick regular script are two words: 'Tempus Fugit'.

'What do you mean, "best if I don't"? That's just stupid!'

'What does that mean?'

'What?'

'Tempus Fugit. What does it mean?'

'Time flies. Why?'

'Time flies?'

'Yes.'

'So make the most of it. Not wasting what time you have being depressed because you don't have time.' There is a pause.

'I… I guess.' Another pause, full of things that I could say, but decide not to. 'Um, sorry. I'm being a bit of an idiot.'

'It's alright. Everybody has their moments.' The face wavers briefly, trying to decide whether to laugh or cry, and settles on that sad smile that I knew so well.

'Well… what is a good use of time?'

'Aren't we meant to be drawing something?' The smile becomes warm, and I give their shoulder a light playful punch. 'Come on then.'

Now, I snap awake. I have a name, a face, a person held in my mind. I decide to see what they're doing now, so I open my laptop, eager to see that face again, and look them up. As soon as I have done so I get a feeling like somebody has just scraped out my insides with a sharpened spoon like a pumpkin ready for carving.

It turns out they've been dead for five years.

I slump back, hollow.

Wishing for more time.

Time spent with that person, who, I now remember, cried when I said I was leaving.

I realise that I've failed to follow my own advice.

But despite this, I don't think that person is dead. Because in my head they're still there, still young, still with that smile, happy now, free from material constraint.

Because I made a promise never to forget. Against time we still stand, hands together, like we used to; making the most of what time we have.