Before the World Forgot Me

Remembrance

I pulled up the email chain about Henderson again. I read through it carefully. All of my emails were in response to something. All of them were supportive, not leading. All of them suggested that Marcus was in charge and I was assisting. But I remembered writing this differently. I remembered the intention being different.

Didn't I?

Or was I remembering the notebook version of events? Was I remembering the story I'd told myself about my role in this project? Had the documentation created a false reality that I believed more than the actual reality?

I picked up my phone and called Mara.

"Hi," she said. She sounded surprised to hear from me. Why would she be surprised? I'd been to her apartment yesterday.

"Do you remember when I told you about my big project at work?" I asked.

"Um. No. I don't think you mentioned a big project."

"The Henderson account. I told you I was working on it."

"No," Mara said. "That doesn't sound familiar. Why?"

"Because I thought I told you. I thought I mentioned it."

"Well, you didn't. Or maybe you did and I forgot. I don't know, Eli. Is this important?"

Everything felt important and nothing felt important. That was the thing about reality breaking down. It all becomes equally significant and insignificant.

"No," I said. "It's not important."

"Are you sure? You sound weird."

"I'm fine."

"You don't sound fine."

"I'm just having a day," I said. "Work stuff."

"Okay. Well, I'm here if you want to talk about it."

But she wasn't there. Not really. She was a voice on a phone. She was someone who didn't remember my work project. She was someone who sat at the far end of the couch. She was someone I was friends with but who didn't seem to notice when I existed or didn't exist.

"Thanks," I said anyway.

I hung up and I sat at my desk. I didn't know what to do. I could go home. That's what Patricia had suggested. I could go home and call the employee assistance program and talk to someone about my stress and confusion. I could medicalize what was happening to me. I could make it clinical and treatable and therefore not real.

Or I could stay. I could stay at my desk and continue existing in this space where I wasn't being remembered. Where my work was being credited to someone else. Where my emails were just supporting responses to real leadership. Where I was the background.

I stayed.

I sat at my desk for the rest of the day and did my work. I responded to emails. I contributed to projects that other people were leading. I existed in the margins of my own professional life. I watched people walk past my cubicle without looking at me. I watched them have conversations with each other and never acknowledge my presence.

Around two o'clock, Derek walked past. The Derek who'd asked if we'd met before. I called out to him.

"Derek. Can I ask you something?"

He stopped. He turned to look at me. For a moment, there was nothing. No recognition. No connection.

"How long have we worked together?" I asked.

"Um." He thought about it. Actually thought about it like he was trying to calculate something. "I don't think we've worked together. I mean, we're in the same department but I don't think we've directly worked on anything."

"Six years," I said. "We've been in the same department for six years."

"Oh," Derek said. "Well, yeah. I guess so. Time goes fast."

"And you don't remember me."

"I mean, I see you around. I recognize you now that you mention it. But I guess I don't think about you when you're not here. Is that weird? I don't know you that well, so I don't really think about you."

"Yeah," I said. "That makes sense."

He walked away. And what he'd said was reasonable. It was fair. You don't think about people you don't know well. You don't carry their existence with you when they're not present. That's normal. That's how people work.

But what if everyone was like that with me? What if I was someone that everyone saw but never thought about? Someone who existed only when observed. Someone who disappeared the moment you stopped looking?

I opened the notebook again. I looked at all the pages I'd filled. I looked at the accumulation of evidence. And I saw something I hadn't seen before.

The handwriting on the newest pages didn't quite match the handwriting on the oldest pages. It was close. But it was different. It was like someone else had taken the pen at some point and continued the story. Like someone else was writing my life into existence.

Or like I was losing the ability to be consistent. Like I was fragmenting.

I picked up a pen. I turned to a blank page. I wrote: "Monday. 2:47 PM. I don't know what's real anymore. I don't know if I wrote the Henderson proposal or if I just remember writing it. I don't know if I have a history of friendship with Mara or if I fabricated it. I don't know if I'm being erased from the world or if I'm erasing myself from the world. The distinction is becoming meaningless."