THE MATE I CHOSE TO FORGET

“THE PHOTOGRAPH”

Aurelia lay awake, staring at the ceiling. No matter how hard she tried, she couldn’t shut out Draven’s voice echoing in her head.

You used to hate thunder.

She spent the whole night telling herself it was just a coincidence. Maybe Draven had guessed. Maybe someone told him. She kept trying to reason it away, but it didn’t hold up.

He knew about the scar on her hand. He knew about the old tree. He knew things no ordinary stranger would ever know.

She needed answers.

Right before sunrise, Aurelia slipped out of her room. The palace hallways felt even quieter than usual, almost hollow. Her bare feet made no sound against the cold floor as she moved down the corridors toward the study, the same one Draven brought her to last night.

The door wasn’t locked. She pushed it open and stepped inside. Moonlight poured through the big windows, painting everything in silver.

“If you’re hiding something from me…” She whispered into the silence, “I’m going to find it.”

Then she started searching. She checked drawers, ran her fingers along shelves, yanked open cabinets—nothing. Frustration prickled inside her.

That’s when she spotted it: a small drawer on the far end of the desk with a tiny lock. Weird. Every other drawer was open, but this one—locked.

She tugged at the handle. No luck.

Aurelia’s heart sped up. She dug around the desk, finally pulling a little silver key from beneath a stack of old papers.

Her fingers shook as she pressed the key into the lock. With a soft click, the drawer slid open.

Inside, there were old letters, a necklace with faded metal, and a small, black box. The box felt heavier than it looked when she picked it up. She flicked it open.

A single photograph.

She lifted it out and froze.

Two children stood under a broad oak tree: a boy with dark, serious eyes—Draven. Even in the picture, she recognized him. Next to him was a girl. She recognized that girl too. Same eyes. Same scar on her hand. Same crooked little smile.

Her own face stared back at her from years ago.

“No…” she whispered.

The photo slipped from her hands and landed on the desk. She just stared at it. Like maybe it would rearrange itself or tell her she was wrong.

She picked it back up, hands trembling.

The girl wasn’t just standing next to the boy—she was holding his hand. Both of them were smiling. Not a polite smile; a real, easy kind of smile—like they belonged together.

Her chest tightened.

She flipped the photo over. Nothing on the back. She pressed a finger softly to the girl’s face.

“That can’t be me.”

But deep down, she knew it was.

Then something sparked inside her—an image, a memory—a sunny afternoon, a boy running with laughter in his voice, “Wait for me!” And then, just as quickly, it was gone.

Aurelia gasped and clutched the edge of the desk.

“What is happening to me?” she said out loud.

Right then, the door opened. Aurelia spun around. Draven was there. His eyes locked on the photograph in her hand, and something in his expression changed.

She held the photo higher. “Who is she?”

Draven just stared. So she asked again, a step closer. “Who is she?”

He kept his gaze fixed on that photograph.

Finally, he spoke, voice soft. “You.”

Aurelia felt the air squeeze out of her lungs.

“No.”

“Yes.”

“Why am I with you?” she demanded.

His eyes lost some of that steel as he moved closer. “Because you were mine long before either of us understood what that meant.”

Her heart pounded. She wanted to feel angry, wanted to shout, to demand answers. But what filled her head was the image of that little girl. Hand in hand with Draven. Trust shining in both their faces.

She swallowed. “Did I love you?”

Draven stopped just short of her. His eyes met hers, and he just stood there, silent.

After a moment, he answered. “You trusted me.”

“That’s not what I asked.”

He clenched his jaw. “I know.”

“Then answer me,” Aurelia pressed, voice shaking with something between hope and fear.

Draven looked away. “I don’t think you’re ready for that answer.”

That stung. All that frustration came rushing back. “Stop deciding what I can handle.”

He turned back toward her, pain flickering across his face. “You’re asking me to tell you about a life you don’t remember.”

“But it’s my life,” she whispered.

For a moment, neither of them said anything. Aurelia looked down again, at the faces in that photograph—her younger self, happy, safe, loved. She’d spent so long believing she never belonged anywhere.

And yet, right there, she’d looked right at home.

She turned the photograph over one more time.

This time, there were five words scrawled on the back in dark ink.

Never let her remember.

Her breath stalled.

The room suddenly felt icy. She stared at the words, then lifted her gaze to Draven, whose face had gone pale.

“You knew about this?” she barely managed.

Draven said nothing.

Aurelia’s voice dropped to almost nothing. “Who wrote it?”

Silence.

Her grip tightened around the photograph.

And for the first time, Aurelia realized something more terrifying than forgetting Draven: someone had wanted her to forget him.