If one thing is constant throughout Wendy's life, it is her memories. She has never forgotten a single moment of her time in Neverland, not even when she is old and it would have been far past acceptable for her to do so. When it feels like life is pulling her apart, her memories from that night, those days, on that eve of adulthood, hold her together. She wonders if the Lost Boys and Tiger Lily and Tinkerbell and Peter hold onto their memories as tightly as she does. Perhaps they have no reason to, she thinks. After all, if my life were as exciting as theirs, what would be the point in remembering old adventures when I could just create new ones?

If one thing is constant throughout Peter's life, it is a sense of something lost. It takes him a long time to figure out what it is. When it first begins to nag at him, he disregards it completely. Lost things are nothing new to him. Because, in truth, Peter has met hundreds of little girls and boys from all over London, in every decade imaginable… he remembers most of them, faces at least. The names are harder. Eventually he realizes what is missing, who is missing, but he finds himself unable to understand or even recall why she left in the first place.

Wendy wonders why she thinks of him so often, why he won't leave her alone in this big, grown-up life of hers.

Peter wonders why he misses her more than any other child, and why he had to say goodbye.

She did not love him. At least, not in a grown-up way. He did not love her; a young boy is far from capable of such a thing, especially one who has not grown in a very long time.

But she was on the cusp of adulthood, and he was forever stuck in childhood. She was nervous but excited, though she felt guilty for being in Neverland at all. He was joyous yet sad, but he couldn't have recalled the children who left him that way. They met and they flew and they danced from recess to recess of that imaginary yet oh-so-real island, and they had adventures and saved their friends and built a beautiful, tiny and naïve little life together. And then one day they flew away, riding the wave of victory back to her home where they said their goodbyes, though neither of them were quite old enough to comprehend what a goodbye really is. So they made promises of future meetings that they fully intended to keep, as children often do – but how could they, when she would remember everything and he almost nothing? How could they, when she had a growing up to do and he had vowed to spend his endless childhood destroying the dreaded process?

They were opposites in every sense of the word: she was practically born as an adult, and he would die as a child. She dreamed of a life, while Peter's life was nothing but a dream. She was practical, and he was magical. They were never meant to be together, to fit together, to stay together. Wendy and Peter were like perpendicular lines, meant to touch once and never again.

As it was, Peter kept flying and tried his hardest to remember what filled the empty places in his mind. Wendy kept living, and begged her mind to stop bringing up the boy in the green cap. Their minds danced right around each other as she aged and he did not, until Wendy forgot what she was trying not to remember and Peter remembered what was long forgotten by the only other person who mattered.

Remembering, forgetting. An endless circle that occupied them until the end. Perhaps they weren't perpendicular after all.