The things we never say.

Chapter 10: What I asked her to Forget

I didn't go home immediately.

I sat in my car for almost an hour, staring at the photograph.

I kept thinking about what she had said.

You asked me to make you forget.

But why?

What could possibly have happened that I would willingly erase it from my own mind?

I opened the notebook.

For the first time, I wasn't afraid of what I might find.

I wanted answers.

I turned to the first page.

Nothing.

Second page.

Nothing.

Third.

Nothing.

Then I noticed something strange.

The pages weren't blank.

They had been erased.

I could see the faint marks underneath the paper.

Words.

Whole paragraphs.

Someone had tried to remove them.

I ran my fingers across the page.

Then I remembered something.

The burgundy shimmer.

The notebook hadn't always looked like this.

I remembered buying it.

I remembered thinking it was beautiful.

But I couldn't remember where I bought it.

I couldn't remember the shop.

I couldn't remember the person who gave it to me.

I couldn't remember anything.

Except one thing.

A voice.

A woman's voice.

If you forget, write it down.

I froze.

That wasn't my memory.

It was the notebook.

I turned the page.

New words were appearing.

Slowly.

Letter by letter.

You wanted the truth.

I watched.

Another sentence appeared.

Then you became afraid of it.

My hands began to shake.

The next sentence appeared.

So you asked her to help you forget.

I whispered, "Why?"

The page remained blank.

Then another line appeared.

Because you hurt someone.

I stopped breathing.

"No."

The notebook didn't stop.

You don't remember what you did.

I pushed it away.

It fell onto the floor.

My phone vibrated.

Unknown number.

I didn't want to look.

But I did.

There was only one message.

Now you know why she was afraid to see you.

I stared at it.

Then another message appeared.

You weren't the victim.

My heart pounded.

The phone vibrated again.

This time, it wasn't a message.

It was a photograph.

I opened it.

My blood ran cold.

It was me.

Standing in that same hallway.

The woman beside me.

And the girl from the old photograph.

Except this time, I remembered something.

The girl was crying.

I was holding the notebook.

And the woman was standing between us.

Trying to stop me.

I dropped the phone.

A memory rushed through my mind.

A door slamming.

Someone screaming.

My own voice saying—

"I didn't mean to."

Then darkness.

The missing forty-four minutes.

They weren't missing.

They had been taken from me.

And suddenly, I understood the worst part.

Someone hadn't erased my memory to protect me.

They had erased it to protect ,everyone else from me.