The Art of Forgetting You

The thing about losing your memory is… you don’t realize how empty you are until someone else starts filling you up with things that may or may not be true. Like how my favorite color is apparently green. Forest green, to be exact. The color of old money and Saint Elysian Academy blazers. I don’t remember liking green. But when Killian Reyes said it, I believed him—until I caught my reflection wearing a crimson scarf and thought, No. It was always red. He also said I used to hate coffee. (Which I find impossible, since black coffee is the only thing keeping me upright lately.) According to him, I was more of a tea person. Something delicate. Polite. But my fingers wrap around the chipped mug like they were made for it. And when I drink, it burns straight down my throat. I like the burn. I don’t think I was ever delicate. And then there’s the biggest one. The thing that makes my stomach twist in knots I can’t undo. He says I broke his heart. The Killian Reyes. The heir of Reyes Corp. The boy with cold eyes and colder words. The enemy I don’t remember having. The stranger I can’t seem to stay away from. But here’s the thing: I don’t remember him. And now, he’s everywhere. I find him in the reflection of glass windows I pass on the street. Standing too close when he shouldn’t be. I hear him in the measured way people say his last name, Reyes, like they’re still afraid of what he can do. And I feel him in the way my pulse kicks every time he looks at me like I’m something worth remembering. Like he’s fighting to forget me… and losing. And me? I’m fighting to remember. Even if the truth ruins everything. ⸻ “Cassian.” His voice cuts through the fog of my thoughts. Smooth, deep, threaded with something I can’t place. I glance at him across the polished marble of the conference table. He’s leaning back in his chair, suit immaculate, expression unreadable. But his fingers tap once against the table’s edge. Like he’s counting seconds. Like he’s losing patience. “I need an answer,” he says. There’s something dangerous in his tone, something sharp. But beneath it, there’s a flicker of something else. Something raw. I sit straighter. “I don’t have one.” Because I’m not sure what he’s asking. Because the last thing I remember is waking up in a hospital bed, surrounded by white walls and strangers’ faces. And then his. He exhales slowly, like I’m exhausting. But he doesn’t look away. “I told you,” he says. “You did this. You started this war.” I want to believe he’s wrong. But when I look in the mirror, I see a girl I don’t recognize. And when he looks at me like that—like he’s remembering a fight I don’t remember starting— I wonder if he’s right. ⸻ I trace my reflection in the glass. My face, pale and unfamiliar. My eyes, dark with questions I don’t know how to ask. And behind me, Killian Reyes. Watching me like he’s waiting for me to shatter. “Remember,” he says quietly. Like a command. Like a dare. And maybe I will. Maybe I’ll remember the truth about him. About us. About the night I lost everything. But deep down, I already know something: Some memories are better left buried. Because remembering might destroy me. And forgetting… Forgetting might destroy him.