The Summer She Forgot Me

Missing Pieces

The first thing I did the next morning was reach for the journal. I hadn't stopped thinking about it all night, and the words on the last page kept replaying in my head: I think I'm falling in love with my best friend. Every time I closed my eyes, I saw them again.

I sat cross-legged on my bed and opened the journal to the same entry. The page after it was still missing. I ran my fingers along the torn edge. Someone hadn't accidentally damaged it. The page had been removed carefully, deliberately. A strange sensation settled over me. Who would tear a page out of my journal, and more importantly, why?

I flipped through the earlier entries. At first, everything appeared normal: school complaints, conversations with friends, random thoughts about books and classes. Then I started noticing a pattern. Noah appeared everywhere. Not constantly, but often enough to stand out. There were entries about studying together at the library, about bike rides through town, about spending time at the lake, and about inside jokes that no longer made sense to me.

The more I read, the more obvious it became that Noah had once been one of the most important people in my life. But whenever an entry appeared close to explaining what had happened between us, something was missing. A page ended abruptly. A section was crossed out. An entire page had been torn away.

By the time I reached the end of the journal, my frustration was growing. I grabbed another composition book from a box beneath my desk, then another, then another. Hours passed, and the floor around me became covered with journals, diaries, and loose sheets of paper.

The deeper I searched, the more uneasy I became. It wasn't just one missing page—there were several. Some journals had entire sections removed, while others contained entries that stopped in the middle of a thought. My eyes locked on the growing pile around me. There was no way all of this was a coincidence. Someone had gone through these journals. Someone had removed things. The question was whether that someone had been me.

A knock sounded downstairs before I could think about it further. A few moments later, I heard the front door open, and then a familiar voice drifted up the stairs.

"Please tell me she's actually awake this time."

I frowned. A minute later, my bedroom door flew open, and a girl with long blonde hair rushed inside carrying two paper bags. Before I could react, she wrapped her arms around me.

"Oh my God." The hug nearly knocked me backward. "You're alive."

I laughed despite myself.

"Last time I checked."

She pulled away and pointed dramatically at me.

"Do not joke about that."

Then she hugged me again. I blinked.

"Sarah?"

Her eyes widened.

"You remembered me."

"Of course." At least, I remembered the version of her from before my missing years.

Relief spread across her face.

"Good. I was starting to feel offended."

She placed the bags on my desk.

"I brought snacks."

"That's your solution to everything."

"And yet it always works."

I couldn't help smiling. For the first time all day, things seemed almost normal.

Sarah settled onto the floor and immediately launched into stories about school. Most of them involved teachers, drama, and people I barely remembered. At some point, I found myself laughing—not because I remembered the stories, but because Sarah was funny, easy to be around, and comforting. For a while, I almost forgot about the missing pages.

Almost.

Then Noah's name slipped into my thoughts again. I picked at the label on a water bottle.

"Can I ask you something?"

Sarah nodded.

"Sure."

"What happened between Noah and me?"

The change in her expression was subtle—so subtle I almost missed it. Her smile faltered for a fraction of a second, then returned.

"Why are you asking about Noah?"

I shrugged.

"We were best friends."

"Yeah."

The answer came a little too quickly. I waited. Sarah reached for a cookie.

"People grow apart sometimes."

The explanation sounded simple—too simple.

"Noah doesn't act like we just grew apart."

Sarah looked away, only briefly, but long enough for me to notice.

"Things were complicated."

"What does that mean?"

She laughed softly.

"It means high school is messy."

Then she immediately changed the subject.

"So, are you planning on coming back next semester?"

I stared at her. The transition was so sudden it almost gave me whiplash. Still, I let it go for now.

The rest of the visit passed pleasantly enough, yet something lingered with me—not what Sarah had said, but what she hadn't said. After she left, I found Elle in the kitchen.

"Did Noah and Sarah ever date?"

Elle nearly dropped the dish she was holding.

"No." The answer came immediately—too immediately. "Why would you ask that?"

I shrugged.

"No reason."

But another contradiction quietly joined the list forming in my head. Sarah had implied something completely different. Small details, minor inconsistencies. Nothing major. Still, they were there, and I was starting to notice them.

Later that evening, I returned to my room. The search resumed. Most of the remaining boxes contained ordinary things: old assignments, birthday cards, receipts, random clutter. I was about to give up when I discovered a compact notebook hidden beneath a stack of textbooks. The cover was plain black with no title or labels—just a notebook.

Curious, I opened it. The first few pages contained grocery lists, reminders, and phone numbers. Nothing unusual. Then I turned another page and froze.

The handwriting was mine, but the format wasn't. Instead of personal thoughts, the page contained observations: names, dates, questions. Several lines had been highlighted, and others had arrows connecting them. I flipped through more pages, and my pulse quickened.

This wasn't a journal. It looked more like an investigation. One page contained notes about town council meetings. Another referenced missing records from the local archives. A third mentioned people meeting late at night near the old warehouse district.

I frowned. The black book offered no answers—only more questions. I continued reading, and every page deepened my confusion. The handwriting was definitely mine, and the careful organization was mine, yet I had no memory of creating any of it.

The entries grew increasingly detailed: names, dates, patterns, connections. Whoever had written these notes had been looking for something, searching for something. The disturbing part was realizing that person had been me.

I sat back against the wall, my mind racing. Before the accident, I hadn't just been living my life. I had been investigating something—something important enough to fill an entire notebook, something important enough that I had hidden it. A chill crept down my spine. For the first time, a possibility occurred to me: maybe the accident wasn't random. Maybe it had something to do with this.

I turned another page, then another. A folded sticky note slipped free and landed on the floor. I bent down and picked it up. The paper had been folded twice. My stomach tightened. Slowly, I unfolded it.

Three words stared back at me.

Don't trust Ethan.

Beneath them was a single initial: —E

For several seconds, I couldn't move. I read the note again, then again. The handwriting was mine—there was no doubt about it. The same slant, the same loops, the same uneven spacing. I had written it. At some point before the accident, I had left myself a warning about my own boyfriend.

My fingers tightened around the paper. A dozen explanations rushed through my head: maybe Ethan had hurt me, maybe we had fought, maybe there was some misunderstanding I couldn't remember. But none of those possibilities explained why I would hide the note inside an investigation notebook.

I looked down at the words one last time.

Don't trust Ethan.

The warning felt less like a memory and more like the beginning of a nightmare.