I know Northern Italy is a bit scatterbrained and I've accepted him for it. It's just another thing I love about him, that he can forget his troubles at the drop of a hat, in the blink of an eye.

I hope he didn't forget me that fast.

When I left him I told him I'd love him the most of anyone in this world. I hadn't lied.

Everyone told me it was a fling, I'd forget in a few years. A child's whim; a summer fling. They were wrong and I knew it. I hoped he knew it.

There were tears in my eyes when I left to fight in the war. At that time I thought him a girl still (you can't blame me!) but Hungary slipped up and corrected me in one of her letters. It was of little consequence. Nothing would stop me from loving that little Italian.

That didn't stop Fate from trying.

Months of war dragged into years and the years blended together into a mass. It was a lonely stretch of time without a day off seeing Italy… and without a day of forgetting him.

I fought to keep him safe. I fought to return to him. I slowly dissolved as I did so.

Styles, languages, technology, it all changed. I know I changed too. The little kid dancing around in a black hat and cape grew into an experienced fighter, a serious man.

My country had relations with Italy's so I heard of his changes also. Italy became steeped in culture, in diversity, in food; specifically pasta.

I can no longer eat the dish. He was such an excellent cook for one so uncoordinated and scatterbrained. I hadn't forgotten the taste of his pasta. I will stand no one else's.

Then, through some cruel act of Fate's that was sugar coated poison, I met him again.

I froze in the chair I was sitting in, whatever expression I had been wearing falling away to one of shock. Italy stood there in all his very real self, unmistakable brown eyes blinking in curiosity behind his boss.

My throat stopped working, strangled by memory, shock, surprise, and what would become the most bitter of them all; hope. My eyes were too busy staring at him to shed tears. He was shorter than I was even though he had grown taller, and had gotten rid the dress I remembered him in. But there was that one, unmistakable, endearing, wonderful curl adorning the side of his. Any doubts I might have had were shot down happily.

It was him.

Then those chocolate eyes landed on me and lit up… but not with recognition. Oh no, Italy was just curious about this new nation he got to meet in person for the first time… What he thought was the first time.

It was then that I knew. I knew he didn't remember. That he didn't recognize me. I didn't believe it at first, then he introduced himself cheerfully and smiled that clueless, beautiful, horrible smile and I knew another thing. I couldn't tell him.

I still haven't. Every time he hangs off my arm, it hurts to know he just does it because that's who he is and not because he knows me. That he does all the little things he had done so long ago that made me fall for him, without knowing.

That he doesn't remember how I love him.

The same day I first met him I went home and took out the broom I still have. It's in my closet protected by a blanket. I don't know how I've kept it but I've managed to. He gave me the broom that he had carried around, me the boy who loves him, before I left to battle. I've probably put too much thought into the action… but I think he returned my feelings to some extent. Why would he have given it to me after all? That's what I'd like to think anyway. I cried over that broom that night, too many thoughts crashing in my head that it hurt. My heart hurt worse though. It still hurts now, the pain of having him forget me and having to act like I don't remember. What the most painful thing is though, is the small, undeniable kernel of hope residing in my heart that just won't go away.

I loved him as a child and he loved me. I love him now and he doesn't remember he loved me.

I hope he remembers.