(Noa Pov)
The first thing I notice is the silence.
Not the peaceful kind they advertise in wellness retreats or meditation apps. This silence is clinical. Controlled. The kind that has been scrubbed into the walls so nothing lingers longer than it's supposed to.
My eyes open before I remember how to breathe.
White ceiling. Too white. No cracks, no stains, no personality. A thin line of recessed lighting runs above me like someone carefully measured where brightness should begin and end. The air smells faintly of antiseptic and something citrusy—an attempt at warmth that doesn't quite land.
I blink.
Once.
Twice.
There's a weight in my chest, not pain exactly, just… absence. Like a room that's been emptied out too quickly, leaving behind the echo of furniture that used to exist.
It worked, I think, and the realization doesn't scare me.
It comforts me.
A soft chime sounds somewhere to my left, and when I turn my head, the movement feels unfamiliar. Not wrong. Just newly calibrated. Like I've been reset to factory settings.
A woman stands beside the bed, tablet in hand. She smiles, and it's practiced but kind—like she's been trained to look like someone you can trust with the most fragile parts of yourself.
"Good morning, Noa," she says gently. "How are you feeling?"
I open my mouth. Close it. Open it again.
How am I feeling?
I scan myself the way you do after waking from anesthesia, mentally checking off limbs and sensations. Fingers? There. Toes? There. Head? Light. Clear. Too clear.
"I… okay," I say finally. My voice sounds like mine. That's a relief. "Calm, I think."
She nods, tapping something onto the screen. "That's exactly what we like to hear."
She helps me sit up, her touch brief and professional. The sheet slips slightly, revealing the thin hospital gown, the faint circular mark just behind my ear where the procedure was done. I reach up without thinking, fingertips brushing over the spot.
There's no pain.
Just smooth skin.
"Do you remember why you're here?" she asks, not looking at me now.
I pause.
There's a shape where an answer should be. A shadow of a reason. I know I chose to be here. I know I signed the forms, read the disclaimers, initialed the risks. I remember wanting this.
But the specifics?
They slide away the moment I reach for them.
"I was… having a hard time," I say carefully.
She smiles again. "That's common."
"What kind of hard time?" I ask, and I don't know why the question feels dangerous.
Her fingers still. Just for half a second.
"Emotional distress connected to a personal relationship," she says smoothly. "You requested an Emotional Memory Severance targeting that source."
A relationship.
The word lands softly, like it's been padded before delivery.
"Oh," I say.
I wait for something to happen—panic, grief, recognition. But nothing comes. No sharp inhale. No racing heart. Just a strange neutrality, like hearing about a movie I watched years ago and barely remember.
"That's it?" I ask. "I don't… feel sad."
"That means the procedure was successful," she replies. "The emotional weight has been removed. The memories may still exist in fragments, but the distress attached to them has been severed."
Fragments.
I try to picture the person I came here to forget.
Nothing.
Not a face. Not a voice. Not even a silhouette.
A part of me thinks I should be alarmed by that, but instead, I feel… light. Unburdened. Like someone finally turned off a noise I'd grown used to but never truly tolerated.
"You might experience mild disorientation today," she continues. "Dreams. A sense of familiarity without context. That's normal. It will fade."
I nod, absorbing the information like instructions after a flight landing. Simple. Manageable.
She hands me a slim envelope. "Your discharge papers. You're free to go whenever you're ready."
Free.
The word sticks with me as she leaves, her footsteps disappearing into the quiet.
I swing my legs off the bed and stand. My knees wobble slightly, but I steady myself against the wall. In the small mirror near the door, I catch my reflection.
I look… fine.
The same dark eyes. Same mouth that always looks like it's holding back a thought. Same faint crease between my brows that suggests worry, even when I feel none.
Except something is different.
I look like someone who has survived something I can't remember.
Outside, the city hums like nothing monumental just happened.
Cars pass. People talk. A dog barks somewhere. Life continues with insulting normalcy. The clinic doors slide shut behind me with a soft hiss, sealing away whatever version of me walked in here hours ago.
The sun is too bright. I squint, adjusting, and take a few steps forward.
That's when it hits me.
The feeling.
It's subtle at first—like being watched without actually seeing anyone. A prickle along the back of my neck. I stop walking and glance around.
People move past me without a second glance. No one looks suspicious. No one looks familiar.
And yet…
My chest tightens.
There's someone.
I don't know how I know that. I just do. The certainty sits heavy in my bones, instinctual and immediate.
Someone important.
Someone I've just lost.
I press a hand to my sternum, confused. "That's stupid," I mutter under my breath. "You're fine."
Still, the feeling doesn't leave.
As I turn to head toward the bus stop, my gaze catches on a figure across the street.
A man.
He's standing perfectly still, like the world forgot to program him movement. Hands shoved into the pockets of a dark jacket, shoulders slightly hunched. His hair falls into his eyes like he hasn't bothered to push it back.
He's staring at me.
Not in a creepy way. Not in a curious way.
In a knowing way.
The moment our eyes meet, something inside me stirs.
Not attraction. Not exactly.
Recognition.
My breath stutters.
I take a step back without realizing it, my heart suddenly loud in my ears. There's a pressure building behind my eyes, the start of something that feels dangerously close to tears.
Why?
I don't know him.
I'm sure of it.
And yet my body reacts like it does.
His face doesn't change when he sees me notice him. If anything, his expression softens—sadness flickering across his features so quickly I almost miss it.
Like relief twisted with grief.
Like someone watching a ghost walk past them.
Our eyes stay locked for too long. The city noise fades. My pulse thrums.
Say something, a voice in my head urges. Do something.
But I don't.
Neither does he.
Finally, I tear my gaze away, shaken, and cross the street. When I look back a second later, he's still there.
Watching.
As if letting go is something he's practiced before.
I don't know why, but the thought sends a chill down my spine.
As I walk away, the calm I woke up with begins to crack.
There's a name pressing against the inside of my skull, insistent and aching.
I don't know who it belongs to.
I don't know why it matters.
But I know this, with terrifying certainty:
I was here to forget someone.
And I think I've just met him.