"Memory is the cruelest kind of ghost. It lingers long after the heart has stopped beating, etching itself into the soul until even death can't scrub it clean."
The first thing I forget is her birthday.
We're lying in bed, her head on my chest, her fingers tracing idle patterns over the scars that now web my ribs like cracks in ice. The room is dark, save for the moonlight pooling on the floor, and for a moment, everything feels almost normal. Almost alive.
"Do you remember what day it is tomorrow?" she asks, her voice soft.
I stare at the ceiling, searching. June 12th? October? The dates blur, numbers slipping like sand through my fingers.
"Our anniversary?" I guess, aiming for playful.
She goes still. "No. My birthday."
The words hang in the air, sharp as broken glass.
"Oh." I swallow. "Right."
She sits up, the sheet slipping to her waist. "You forgot."
"I didn't I just "
But I did.
The realization guts me. I've remembered her birthday every year since we met, even when we were continents apart. I'd send flowers, stupidly expensive gifts, voicemails sung off-key. Now, I can't even recall the month.
She turns away, shoulders stiff. "It's fine."
Liar.
I reach for her, but my hand passes through her arm. A new development. She shivers, clutching herself, and I watch, helpless, as frost blooms where my fingers failed to touch.
"I'm sorry," I say.
She doesn't look at me. "You're fading, aren't you?"
Yes.
But I can't say it. Instead, I wrap my arms around her from behind, pressing spectral lips to her neck. "I'll make it up to you. Tonight. Let me… let me try."
She hesitates. Then, with a sigh that cracks my nonexistent heart, she nods.
We go to the rooftop our rooftop, where I asked her to be mine three years ago. The city sprawls below, a constellation of lies and light. Amara wears the dress I bought her last summer, the red one that clings to her curves like a confession. Or maybe I imagined that. Maybe she's wearing pajamas. It's hard to tell now; my vision swims, edges bleeding into shadows.
"Do you remember our first kiss?" she asks, leaning against the railing.
Yes.
No.
Maybe.
It was raining. Or was it snowing? She tasted like coffee. Or wine. She laughed into my mouth. Or cried.
"Of course I do," I lie.
She studies me, eyes narrowing. "Where was it?"
My throat tightens. "Your apartment."
"Wrong." Her voice is flat. "It was here. On this rooftop. You were nervous. You spilled your drink on my shoes."
A flicker of memory her laughter, bright and startled, as whiskey soaked into her sneakers. "Smooth, Aiden. Real smooth."
"I remember," I say quickly.
But she's already turned away.
The second thing I forget is how to kiss her.
We're tangled in bed, her legs hooked around my hips, my hands fisted in her hair. But when I lean down, my lips miss hers, grazing her cheek instead. She freezes.
"Aiden?"
"I'm here," I murmur, trying again. This time, I catch the corner of her mouth.
She pulls back, her breath ragged. "What's wrong?"
Everything.
"Nothing." I crush my lips to hers, pouring every fraying memory into the kiss. She melts, as she always does, her nails scraping down my back. But I feel nothing. No spark. No heat. Just a hollow ache where my soul used to be.
When she gasps my name, I realize I've bitten her lip too hard. Blood wells, crimson against her skin, and for a heartbeat, I want to lick it. To devour it.
I jerk back, disgusted.
"Aiden?" She touches her mouth, her fingers coming away red.
"I'm sorry. I didn't mean to"
"It's okay." She reaches for me, but I flinch.
It's not okay.
I'm not okay.
The third thing I forget is her face.
It happens at midnight. She's asleep beside me, her cheek smushed against the pillow, her hair a dark river across the sheets. I've been watching her for hours, clinging to the details: the slope of her nose, the arch of her brow, the scar on her chin from a childhood fall.
But as the clock chimes, her features blur.
Panic claws up my throat. No. No, no, no.
I lean closer, my hands hovering over her. *Brown eyes. Or green? Full lips. Or thin?*
"Amara," I whisper.
She stirs, her eyelids fluttering. "Aiden?"
That voice. I know that voice.
But when she opens her eyes, they're strangers' eyes.
"Who are you?" I breathe.
She goes still. "What?"
"Who are you?"
Her face crumples. "Stop it. This isn't funny."
"I'm not"
She slaps me.
Or tries to. Her hand passes through my jaw, leaving a trail of frost in its wake. She stares at her palm, then at me, tears spilling over.
"You promised," she chokes. "You promised you wouldn't leave."
I'm not leaving. I'm unraveling.
But I can't say that. Instead, I reach for her, my form flickering like a dying star. "I'm here. I'm right here."
She scrambles back, pressing herself against the headboard. "You don't even know who I am!"
"Yes, I do." The words taste like ash. "You're… you're my"
What?
Lover? Ghost? Victim?
Her name hits me like a bullet. Amara.
"Amara," I say, desperate. "You're Amara."
She hugs her knees to her chest, silent sobs shaking her shoulders.
The fourth thing I forget is how to love her.
It happens slowly, then all at once.
We're in the kitchen, and she's laughing at something I said or didn't say. Her laughter used to be my favorite sound. Now, it grates.
"Stop," I snap.
She freezes. "What?"
"Just… stop." I don't know why I said it. Don't know why her joy feels like a knife.
Her smile dies. "Stop what?"
"Everything. Laughing. Talking. Breathing." The words aren't mine. They're the shadow's, slithering through my veins.
Her eyes widen. "Aiden"
"I said stop!"
The windows shatter.
Glass explodes inward, raining down like jagged tears. Amara screams, throwing her arms over her face. I watch, detached, as blood blooms on her forearm.
Good, the shadow purrs. Let her bleed. Let her fear.
"No." I stumble back, clutching my head. "Get out. Get out!"
Amara stares at me, her chest heaving. "Aiden, what's happening?"
I'm happening.
I'm becoming.
"Run," I rasp.
She doesn't.
The fifth thing I forget is how to say goodbye.
We stand on the terrace, dawn bleeding into the sky. My body is more shadow than flesh now, tendrils of darkness curling off me like smoke. Amara grips my hand, her touch the only anchor I have left.
"Promise me you'll fight," she says.
I can't.
I'm tired.
"I promise," I lie.
She leans in, her lips brushing mine a ghost of a kiss. "I love you."
The words unravel me.
I love you too.
I think.
I did.
Once.
I open my mouth, but the shadows rush in, filling my lungs, stealing my voice. The last thing I see is her face, twisted in grief, as I dissolve into the light.
"The tragedy of love is not in the parting, but in the forgettingthe slow, silent erosion of a heart that once beat only for you."