14.2.XX

We were together for five years. I had never loved such a woman before. She’d braided my hair. Given me my favorite flowers. Red roses. I would accept no other color.

Three weeks ago, she left me for someone else. Older. Attractive. Better. A man.

Two days from now is my procedure and I’ll be the only one left within my memories.

I’m scavenging through the lies scratched into “love” letters and burning the clothes she abandoned. All traces of her should be gone, otherwise I’ll have a hard time recuperating after the procedure. This is not the first time I’ve had memory erasure. I’ve done this five times. The first time must’ve had something to do with my parents, then it must’ve been other women. I don’t remember. I shouldn’t remember.

After three days of clearing everything, the house seems abnormal. I tell myself that’s normal, it’ll be over soon. I browse my neglected bookshelf for something to read to heal from this exhaustion. My fingers scratch against something foreign. A black binder. It was never here before, or perhaps I never noticed it, but it’s certainly not mine. There’s nothing written on the outside of it. I flip inside to see a collection of dark maroon petals in penny sleeves, dates written on paper, tape over each one up until a month ago. My hands slow, trembling across each page until I find the first petal. I remember her confession. I remember her hiding her face with a red bouquet, failing to hide the nervous smile behind it. I remember how gentle her hands were when embracing me. I remember her nibbling on my neck when we cuddled. I remember how loud broken glasses were when we argued over her mother. I remember how our first mistake tasted like lemon candy. I remember how we walked to the edge of the school so she could cry in my arms fifteen years ago. I remember her long lashes when I looked at her from above. I remember the ache in my heart when I first sat next to her in class, and the cheeky grin on her face when she caught me looking.

I remember when I loved her.

And it was real.

A buzz shocks me out of my stupor. I pick up my phone. “Hi, this is Hermann Clinic, confirming your appointment for a procedure on the 14th?”

I look across my barren room. Then at the penny sleeves catching my tears. The ink bleeds slightly on one of the labels, spreading across the tape until it’s no longer beige.

“I’d like to cancel my appointment, please.”

I end the call and go to the storage room. Before I set it on a shelf, I place the binder against my face and close my eyes, “Thank you for having loved me.”

And I think I’m okay with that.