The first thing they ask before erasing someone is simple:
"Are you sure?"
Not "Did he hurt you?"
Not "Do you still love him?"
Not "Do you really want to forget?"
Just one sterile, clinical questio n: Are you sure?
I stare at the tablet in my ha nds. My t humb hovers over the confirmation button, trembling s lightly. Yes. No. Yes. No. The whi te glow of the screen feels blinding, lik e a lighthouse trying to warn me of rocks I can't see.
The waiting room smells l ike lavender and disi nfectant, a nd the fain t hum of the ve ntilation system presses against my eardrums. A couple sits across from me, hands intertwined, looking nervous but hopeful. They're probably here to erase each other. Or perhaps someone else. The thought makes me shiver.
A soft, blue glow flickers acros s the glass wall in front of me, displaying the company logo:
Eidolon Memory Solutions
Rewrite the past. Reclaim your futur e.
The words make my chest tight en. Rewrite t he past.
If only it were that simple.
Three months ago, I believed in forever.
Three months ag o, I believed in him.
I close my eyes and the m e mories come anyway. Rain str eaking the ba lcony glass, his v oic e ca lling my nam e as if it were sacred, the way hi s thumb brushed my knuckles when I overthought things. An d then—silence.
The goodb ye wa sn't l oud. It didn't scream. It was just… final.
"Elara Vance?"
I open my eyes. A wo man in a silver -gray uniform st ands in the h allw ay. H er smile is soft, professional, almo st comforting.
"It's time."
Time. The word f eels heavy, like st andi ng at the edge o f a cliff. Like boarding a train I can ' t step off of. Like letting someone—or something—leave me forever.
I follow he r down a corridor too bright, too clinical, to o s terile. The wa lls are lined wit h framed testimoni als:
"I finally feel free."
"Best decision of my life. "
"The weight is gone."
Free. The word tast es strange in my mouth.
In side t he proced ure room, everythin g is white. White c hair. Wh ite ceili ng. White light that makes the shadows of my o w n face f ee l alien. On a met allic stand rests a helmet, sleek an d futuristic, with wires that snake like tendrils.
"That's the Neur a l Reconcili ation I nterface," the technici an says gently. "I t iso lates and remove s targ eted emotional-memory clus ters."
Clusters. Like he's a tumor in my mind.
"Will it hurt?" I ask. My voice cracks despite my att empt to sound steady.
" No," she replies. "Yo u may experience tempor ary emotional di splacement, mild dizzines s, and some phantom fami liarity in the f ollowing wee ks. Those feelings fade."
Phantom familiarity.
"And… what if I regret it?" I whisper.
Her expression doesn't waver. "Memory deletions are permanent."
Permanent.
The w ord echoes louder th an any fear I 've e ver felt.
She hands me the tablet again. On the screen is h is name:
Adrian Vale
A small photo a ttached to the file shows him laughing at something off-camera. I look a t that face. The face tha t once felt like home. The face that now feels like an open wound.
"You selected full relation al erasure, " t he technician reminds me softly. "This includes shared experiences, emotional imprin ting, and ide ntity as sociatio ns."
Meaning: I won't remember loving him . I won't remember hating him . I won't remember him at a ll.
"Are you sure?" she a sks again.
Yes. No. Yes. No.
I think about the ni ghts I couldn't sleep, the way my chest ach ed randomly, the way every street corner reminded me of him, the way I still reach f or my phone sometimes.
If I erase him… will I finally feel ligh t? Or wil l I just feel empty?
My thumb trembl es. And t hen… I press conf irm.
The helmet lowers over my hea d, and a soft hum fills the room. It vibrates gently, almost like a heartbeat.
"Focus on the person you wish to remove," the tech nician instructs.
That's easy . He's every where.
His smile.
His voice.
His hands.
"I'm sorry," I whisper. Though I don't know if I'm apologizing t o him—or to mysel f.
The hum grows louder. My chest tight ens. Memories flick er behind my ey el ids: our first coffee, our first fight, the night h e said, "You dese rve bett er." And the last time I saw him walk ing aw ay. Then—white light. Silence.
When I wake up, the room fee ls… lighter. My head is heavy, but my chest —my ch est doesn't hurt.
The technician smiles. "How do you feel?"
"Fine ," I say. And stran gely, it's true. No sharp ache . No heavy pull. Just calm.
"Do yo u remember why yo u scheduled this proced ure ?" she asks gently.
I search my mi nd. There's a blank space where t he answer should be.
"I… went through something difficult," I say carefully.
"That's right," she says. "Residual emotional echoes may ap pear. Avoi d revisiting old shared locations for a few weeks."
Share d with who? The question hovers at the edge of my mind, but it dri fts away before I can grasp it.
I step outside. The sky looks unusually clear. Th e air feels crisp. For the first time in months, I don't feel broken .
And then I see him.
Standing across th e street. Watching me. His expression isn't angry. It isn't distant. It's so met hing worse. Devastation wrapped in restraint, like he's ho lding himself together with invisible thread.
Our eyes meet. Something inside me—small, fragile, almost forgotten—tightens.
I frown slig htly. Have I seen him before?
He takes one step forward… then stops. Like he wants to say something, like he's not allowed to.
The light changes behind him. Cars move. Pedestrians pas s. But he doesn 't. He just stands there, looking at me like I am his entire world.
And I don't know why.