Beautiful Lost Memories

Door number 9A

Ten years have passed since the accident. My life has not returned to normal, but I still try to live like everyone else.

There are days when my body feels light and stable, but more often than not, my left side feels heavy, as if something hard is pressing down from within.

The doctor has warned me that my remaining kidney is not functioning properly. I try not to think about it every day, but the pain is a constant reminder.

The clock on my phone showed eleven in the morning when I went up to the ninth floor of The Docta Manhattan Apartments. I hate it when the elevator is under repair, as if it knows how to torture me with stairs.

I carried a bag of food in my left hand and breathed slowly so that the pain in my waist wouldn't get worse. This job doesn't offer financial stability, but it's all I can do with my condition.

I stopped in front of door number 9A and knocked.

The door opened. A woman around twenty-seven years old appeared. Her blonde hair was neatly combed, and she was wearing a satin dress even though it was still daytime.

I tried to smile slightly. "Your lunch order. Chicken Pesto Pasta and Iced Caramel Latte. Payment has been confirmed on the app."

The woman nodded briefly. "Oh, yes. Thank you. I did order that."

I was about to bow my head, but a man's voice came from inside the room.

“Honey, have you seen my charger?”

My body tensed. That voice… I knew it all too well.

A few seconds later, he emerged from behind the bedroom door—wearing a white T-shirt and gray shorts.

Alex. My boyfriend for the past year.

He froze. So did I.

“Alex…?” My voice came out hoarse.

His face changed instantly. Instead of surprise or panic, his gaze showed impatience, as if I had interrupted his day. The woman in front of me turned to Alex with raised eyebrows.

“Who is she, honey?” she asked casually, as if this were normal.

Alex rubbed his face roughly. “Why are you here?”

I swallowed hard. “I’m working. What are you doing here, Alex?”

The woman crossed her arms. “Is she your girlfriend, Alex?”

Alex hissed briefly. “No, honey.”

His words hit me faster than the kidney pain that often came.

"I'm not your girlfriend, Alex?" I repeated softly. "Alex, what do you mean?"

He waved his hand at me, as if dismissing something unimportant.

"Don't start. I don't want to deal with you anymore."

I tried to hold back my gasping breath. "At least tell me the reason."

Alex sighed deeply, then looked at me coldly. "Fine. I'm sick of being in a relationship with a sick woman. You knew that from the start. You often faint, often have to go to the hospital, and it's exhausting. I want to live a normal life like other people who have normal lovers, or even better, satisfying ones."

I clutched the food bag until the plastic crinkled.

“Alex… I didn’t choose this condition.”

“I didn’t choose to be your babysitter either,” he replied quickly. “I’ve told you, we don’t have a relationship anymore.”

I shook my head slowly. “At least let me talk—”

Alex suddenly pushed my shoulder. His push was hard. I lost my balance and fell to the floor of the hallway.

The woman chuckled. “You shouldn’t make a scene in my apartment. Take the change as payment to get out of Alex’s life.”

My cheeks burned. Not from the pain, but from embarrassment.

Alex looked at me one last time. “Don’t contact me again.”

Then the door slammed shut in my face.

I sat on the floor for a few seconds. My waist ached again, stabbing like a small knife pressed from within. I took a short breath and forced myself to get up. My hands trembled as I stood.

I couldn't cry here. Not in a place like this. Not in front of the door of a woman I had just learned was involved with my lover.

I had to work. I still had to live.

---

After calming myself down for a few minutes in the lobby, I picked up my next order: a small gift box with a dark green ribbon. It wasn't heavy, but I still held it carefully. The address was clearly written—a house in the Estate Row neighborhood, two blocks from Central Park. It was an area I rarely visited except to deliver packages.

When I arrived, I saw a tall iron fence, CCTV cameras in every corner, and a security post guarded by three large men. The house was spacious, minimalist, and very clean. Even the paving stones looked like they had just been washed.

I slowly approached one of the guards who was smoking a cigarette.

"I'm delivering a package to this house, addressed to Mr. Morgan Dahm," I said.

"Morgan, there's a package for you."

A security guard with a friendly face came out. "Ah, yes. It's for my wife's birthday. Thank you for delivering it."

I handed him the package and he signed the delivery receipt. His expression was as joyful as if he had won the lottery.

"Have a nice day," he said.

I tried to smile even though my cheeks still felt hot after what had happened earlier. "Thank you. You too."

I turned around. My steps were slow but steady. At least that's what I thought.

One, two, three steps...

Then the world around me began to spin. My vision blurred. My breath was short. The sounds around me seemed distant.

"No... not now..." I whispered.

A sharp pain shot through my left side, radiating up to my chest. It was a sensation I knew all too well. My body was signaling that it had reached its limit for the day.

I tried to take a deeper breath, but my body suddenly lost all strength. My knees buckled, and my vision darkened.

"Miss?" the security guard's voice sounded faintly behind me. "Miss, are you okay?"

I wanted to answer, but I couldn't. My body collapsed before I could make a sound.

But I didn't hit the ground. An arm caught me.

The first thing I felt was someone's body temperature—warm, steady, and strong. The arm held my body as if I were weightless.

"Oh my God, she's fainted!" another security guard's voice sounded panicked.

There were quick footsteps approaching.

Then a man's voice sounded very close to my ear. His voice was low, firm, and sounded like someone who was used to giving orders.

"Who is this girl... Xavia?"

I tried to keep my eyes open, to see who was calling me. There was the scent of expensive men's perfume, subtle and not overpowering. There was pressure on my back, holding me upright.

"Can you hear me, Xavia?" the man's voice sounded frustrated, and I didn't know why. "Are you sick?"

"What happened to her?" The man raised his voice to his guards.

“We don’t know, Sir.”

“My waist… it hurts.” My voice was weak and strained.

“Jesus Christ… hold on. I’ll take you to the hospital.”

I tried to move my fingers, but everything felt distant and heavy.

Darkness engulfed me once more.

For the second time in my life, consciousness slipped away without permission.