1 In the seventh year of my relationship with Ross, I realized I was trapped in a slow, agonizing punishment. Every time he chose Gemma, his first love, over me, a piece of the evidence that I had once loved him would vanish from my mind. The first time, when he spent the night celebrating Gemma’s birthday instead of coming home, I forgot the feel of our very first handhold. The second time, when he took the project proposal I had stayed up for nights to write and put her name on it, I forgot the gentle rain that fell the day he confessed his love to me. For our seventh anniversary, he rented out the entire riverfront for a massive fireworks display, making sure everyone in his social circle knew about it. But when he called to rush me, I was just sitting in the office breakroom, staring blankly at the unfamiliar number flashing on my screen. “Stop playing games,” he said, his voice laced with irritation. “You know what day it is.” Someone next to him laughed and asked, “Hey, Ross, is your girl jealous again?” He sighed impatiently. “She’s always like this. The more important the day, the more drama she creates.” I watched the fireworks burst against the night sky outside the window. My chest didn’t ache, and there was no sting of jealousy. I simply asked, in all seriousness, “I’m sorry, who is this?” … When Ross’s phone call came through for the second time, I handed my phone to the receptionist and asked politely, “Do you know who this is?” The receptionist blinked in confusion. Staring at the name Ross lighting up the screen, she whispered, “Sienna, that’s Mr. Ross. Your boyfriend.” I stared at the name. My fingers rested against the rim of my mug, the warmth of the tea barely registering against my skin. “I don’t have a boyfriend,” I said. I picked up the call, and Ross’s voice came through, low and sharp. “Sienna, have you had your fun? The fireworks are almost over. Get down here.” In the background, a woman giggled softly. “Don’t be so harsh, Ross. Sienna is probably just upset.” Ross seemed to pull the phone away slightly, though he didn’t bother to hide his words from me. “She’s always like this. If you give her an inch, she takes a mile.” I brought the phone back to my ear. “Mr. Ross, if you are a client, please contact my office through the proper channels. If not, please stop harassing me.” Silence hung on the line for a couple of seconds before he let out a cold laugh. “You still remember my last name, yet you’re pretending we’re strangers?” I didn’t reply. I hung up and blocked his number. The receptionist stared at me, dumbfounded. “Sienna, haven’t you two been together for seven years?” The number seven hung in the air, but my mind remained entirely blank. It felt as though someone had snatched all the photos from an album, leaving behind nothing but empty plastic sleeves. On my desk lay a blank photo album I had pulled from my locker earlier that afternoon. The cover was slightly worn, but the pages inside were starkly clean, each marked with a small numbered sticker from one to seven in the corner. I had asked my colleagues if it belonged to me. They assured me it did, telling me that I placed a new photo in it every single anniversary. Yet, no matter how much I searched my phone, I couldn’t find a single photo of Ross and me. When I walked out of the building at the end of the day, Ross was waiting near the entrance. His long black wool coat accentuated his broad shoulders, and he was holding a sleek silver gift box. Seeing me emerge, the tension in his brow relaxed slightly. He reached out, his fingers locking around my wrist. “Alright, let’s go. I’m here to pick you up.” I looked down at his grip. “Let go of me.” Instead of releasing me, he shoved the silver box into my arms. “For you. Our seventh anniversary gift. Gemma said the fireworks-themed necklace from this brand was gorgeous, so I had them hold one for me.” I didn’t catch it in time. The box slipped from my hands and hit the pavement, sending a delicate silver necklace spilling onto the concrete. The pendant was shaped like a tiny, intricate burst of fireworks. The receptionist, who was walking out behind me, gasped. Ross’s face darkened instantly. “Sienna, do you really have to embarrass me in public?” I bent down, picked up the box, and handed it back to him. “This isn’t mine.” He stared at me for a moment, then let out a bitter chuckle. “You’re really committed to this act, aren’t you? Usually, if I’m an hour late, you ignore me for two days at most. How long are you planning to stretch it this time?” Gemma stepped out of his car, a thick scarf wrapped around her neck. “Sienna, I’m so sorry. I wasn’t feeling well today, so Ross took me to the hospital first. He only put together the fireworks display because he was worried you’d be upset.” My eyes drifted to the scarf around her neck. It was a dusty blue, with a crooked, hand-embroidered letter S in the corner. Noticing my gaze, she gently touched the fabric. “Oh, this? Ross said it was just sitting in his car collecting dust, so he let me wear it.” Ross reached over and tucked the scarf tighter around her neck. “She has a cold. Don’t look at her like that.” I suddenly asked, “What does that letter stand for?” Ross paused, his voice quickly turning indifferent. “Nothing. Just some old junk.” Old junk. My fingers brushed against the cover of the blank photo album in my bag, and a fleeting, shattered memory flickered in my mind. I seemed to recall sitting by a window on a freezing winter night, clumsily stitching a letter onto a scarf, whispering that we would add a new photo to the album every year until the seventh, when we would finally get married. But before the face in that memory could clear, Gemma let out a soft cough. Ross immediately let go of me and turned to support her. “Get back in the car.” I stood frozen on the sidewalk as he looked back over his shoulder. “Stop acting up, Sienna. Bring your album to the office tomorrow. I’ll help you get those memories back.” Before the car door clicked shut, Gemma glanced at me through the window, her fingers resting directly over the embroidered S. When I walked into the conference room the next morning, Ross was adjusting the projector for Gemma. Cradling her laptop, Gemma looked up and smiled warmly at me. “Sienna, you’re here. Ross mentioned you were originally heading this project. I’m so nervous about presenting it. Would you mind stepping in to cover for me if I stumble?” I slid the photo album into my bag and pulled out a chair. “Why is her name on my proposal?” Ross’s fingers paused on the remote control. His tone was detached. “Gemma is up for a promotion, and she needs a strong case study under her belt. You’re established enough that missing out on this one won’t hurt you.” I stared at the title slide on the screen. The proposal was the result of seven sleepless nights of hard work, yet the author line now read Gemma. The department manager tried to smooth things over. “Come on, Sienna. You and Ross are practically family. There’s no need to be so possessive over a project. The younger staff need opportunities to shine too.” Gemma quickly slid her laptop toward me. “Sienna, how about I do the introduction, and you can present the core strategy? You’ll still get the credit.” Ross’s brow furrowed. “She’s supposedly lost her memory to the point of forgetting who I am. What do you expect her to present?” A few people in the room snickered. The quiet laughter stung like a needle. I stood up and reached for the projector cable. “If I’m unfit to present, then this proposal is unfit to be used.” Ross clamped his hand over my wrist. He didn’t squeeze hard, but it was firm enough to lock me in place. “Sienna, don’t bring your personal tantrums into the workplace.” I stared down at his hand. “You said yesterday that you’d help me remember.” He looked up at me. “We’ll handle that once we finish our actual work. I’ll take you to our old art studio this afternoon.” The laser pointer slipped from Gemma’s fingers, clattering onto the table. She bent down to retrieve it, her voice trembling. “Ross, my stomach is starting to hurt again. I think I forgot to take my medicine this morning.” Ross instantly let go of my wrist. “Where is it?” “Probably in the car,” she murmured. “I can go get it myself.” He was already grabbing his coat. “I’ll go with you.” I stepped in front of the door, holding out the printed project proposal. “Before you leave, change the name on the title slide back to mine.” Ross glanced at the paper but made no move to take it. “Sienna, don’t force me to say things I’ll regret in front of everyone.” “You already have,” I replied. He pushed past me, his shoulder brushing against my bag. The blank photo album slipped out and hit the floor, opening to the very first page. A small sticky note fluttered out. It was his handwriting: Year One: Making a wish under the fireworks. Ross will always choose Sienna first. The conference room fell dead silent. Gemma picked up the note, her eyes welling with tears. “Oh… so this was yours, Sienna? I always assumed Ross wrote it for me. No wonder he told me yesterday that his old wishes didn’t count anymore.” Ross’s expression shifted. “Gemma.” She quickly covered her mouth, looking horrified. “I’m so sorry. I shouldn’t have said that.” I reached out and took the note from her. “What do you mean by that?” Ross avoided my eyes. “It was just a silly joke from years ago.” “And the scarf?” I pressed. “Was that a joke too?” His patience finally snapped. “Sienna, it’s a dusty old scarf and a scrap of paper from years ago. Do you really have to dissect every little thing?” The manager cleared his throat. “The clients are arriving soon, Sienna. Why don’t you step outside and cool off?” I looked at the faces in the room. They all knew exactly who had written the proposal. They all knew Ross and I had been together for seven years. Yet, in this moment, every single one of them was waiting for me to back down. Gemma leaned against the doorframe, her voice dripping with artificial sympathy. “Sienna, if it makes you feel better, we can add your name as a co-author. Second place still looks quite nice.” I let out a quiet laugh and closed the album. “No, thank you.” Ross’s tense shoulders relaxed slightly, as if he believed I was finally behaving. He reached for my bag. “Let’s head to the art studio. I’ll help you remember everything.” I pulled the bag out of his reach. “Mr. Ross, the clients are here. You should help Gemma get ready for her presentation.” The door opened, and the clients walked in. Gemma immediately took her position at the front of the room. Ross lingered for a split second, looking at me, before turning to stand beside her, clicking the remote to display the first slide. As the screen lit up, my phone vibrated with a message from an unknown number: Want to know the third thing you forgot? Go to the old art studio. Don’t bring Ross. The elderly owner of the studio looked up when I walked in, his eyes softening. “Ah, you’re finally here to pick up that painting.” I froze. “What painting?” He reached into the bottom cabinet and pulled out a long cardboard tube, blowing a layer of dust off the top. “The canvas of the fireworks you and Ross painted together seven years ago. He told me back then he wanted to use it when he proposed on your seventh anniversary. But he came in recently asking to change the signature.” My grip on the tube tightened. “Change it to what?” The owner glanced toward the door and lowered his voice. “Some young lady named Gemma. She told him that the fireworks painting represented the beginning of her and Ross’s story.” The chime above the door jingled. Ross walked in, with Gemma and several colleagues from our office trailing close behind. Seeing the cardboard tube in my hand, his face hardened. “Who told you to come here alone?” Gemma rushed forward, her face lighting up with excitement. “Oh, the painting was here all along! Ross was searching everywhere for it. He said he wanted to display it at my promotion party.” I turned to Ross. “Isn’t this painting mine?” He remained silent for a long moment before reaching out to take the tube from me. “It’s just a silly college sketch, Sienna. It doesn’t matter who uses it.” The studio owner protested. “How can you say that? Miss Sienna was the one who painted the fireworks. You only filled in the silhouette at the bottom!” Our colleagues traded uneasy glances. Gemma’s face paled as she quickly tried to explain herself. “I had no idea… Ross just told me this painting was incredibly important to him. I assumed he wanted to gift it to me.” Ross slid the canvas out of the tube. The edges of the paper were yellowed with age. There were two small figures painted beneath a brilliant sky of fireworks: one in a white dress, the other holding a camera. Near the corner, the hand-painted signature Sienna had been lightly rubbed with a pencil, as if someone had tried to smudge it out and write Gemma over it. Staring at the blurred, ruined letters, a sharp memory flashed through my mind: a hand covered in paint holding mine, a warm voice promising, We’re using this painting when I propose. No one else gets to touch it. Noticing my silence, Ross’s voice softened slightly. “Sienna, didn’t you say you forgot? If it’s already gone from your mind, let it go. We’re trying to start over here, and you need to meet me halfway.” I looked up at him. “And starting over means erasing my name?” Tears spilled down Gemma’s cheeks. “Sienna, please don’t misunderstand. The promotion party is starting soon, and Ross was only worried I wouldn’t have any artwork to showcase. I never wanted to steal anything from you.” The department manager chimed in. “Sienna, you’re clearly not in the right headspace right now. Don’t make a scene in front of the clients. Gemma just closed a major deal. She needs this night to go smoothly.” Ross handed the painting to his assistant. “Get this framed.” I reached out to stop him, but Ross caught my fingers. His voice was a barely audible whisper. “Please, don’t make this difficult for me. Gemma cannot afford to fail tonight.” She is the only one who can’t afford to fail. I pulled my hand back, my fingernail scraping along the edge of the canvas, leaving a thin, pale scratch. Ross saw it, and irritation flashed in his eyes. “Sienna, this is childish.” The promotion party was held in the small hall right next to the studio. Gemma stood in front of the framed fireworks painting, giving her acceptance speech. She spoke about how the artwork represented her journey and the deep trust Ross had placed in her. As the room erupted into applause, Ross stood behind her, gently adjusting her microphone. Nearby, a couple of coworkers whispered. “Ross really treats Gemma differently. Even with Sienna losing her memory, he’s still putting Gemma first.” The other smirked. “Seven years doesn’t mean a thing. At the end of the day, the one who gets chosen is the winner.” I sat in a quiet corner, clutching my photo album, slowly turning the pages. The second page was empty. But tucked into the corner of the third page was a torn piece of an old medical receipt from three years ago. The header was from the city hospital, and the department read: Cognitive Assessment, Initial Consultation. Before I could read the details, Ross walked over and snatched the paper from my hands. “This is useless garbage.” “I was seeing a specialist three years ago?” I asked. He crumpled the paper in his fist. “You were under a lot of stress back then. I took you to a doctor, and they said you were perfectly fine.” Gemma approached us with a glass of juice. Her eyes lingered on his clenched hand before she murmured, “Ross, Dr. Reynolds asked earlier if you’re still bringing Sienna in for her follow-up tomorrow as planned.” Ross’s face darkened. “Gemma.” She immediately shut her mouth. I stared at them, a cold dread pooling in my stomach. Dr. Reynolds. Follow-up. As planned. The lights of the hall reflected off the glass of the framed, stolen painting. As I looked down, I noticed a corner of an appointment slip peeking out of Ross’s coat pocket. My name was printed on the patient line. Beneath it, in the notes section, were just three words: Exposure therapy triggers. When I slid the slip back into his pocket, Ross was kneeling on the floor, adjusting the strap of Gemma’s high heels. She sat on the velvet sofa, her silk dress brushing against his wrist, whispering, “Ross, won’t Sienna be upset if she sees us?” Ross didn’t stop. “She doesn’t remember anything anyway. Why would she care?” I stood at the entrance of the lounge. “I’m coming with you to the appointment tomorrow.” His fingers stiffened for a fraction of a second before he stood up and straightened his sleeves. “Of course. I told you, Sienna, I want to help you remember everything.” Gemma bit her lip. “But the doctor said we need familiar people and settings. Should I come along too? After all, I was there for most of those moments over the last few years.” I looked at Ross. “Why was she there?” He avoided my gaze, taking the photo album from my hand. “You’ve forgotten too much, and I can’t fill in all the blanks alone. Gemma is observant. She can help fill in the gaps.” The next day, Dr. Reynolds reviewed my chart, his expression grave. “Miss Sienna’s memory loss is not a simple case of emotional stubbornness. High-stress emotional triggers can worsen the cognitive blocks. Mr. Ross, I warned you last time about using substitute stimuli.” I turned to Ross. “What does ‘substitute stimuli’ mean?” Ross cut in smoothly. “Doctor, she’s been emotionally unstable lately. Just give us the bottom line.” Dr. Reynolds sighed. “It means taking items that belong to her and giving them to someone else in front of her. Doing this forces her brain to actively shut down to avoid the pain of betrayal.” Gemma sat nearby, nervously clutching her skirt. “Doctor, don’t make it sound so dramatic. Ross was only trying to use me to help trigger her memory.” Trigger it. The scarf. The painting. The proposal. None of it had been an accident. Ross grasped my wrist, his voice dropping to a gentle, persuasive murmur. “Sienna, don’t look at me like that. You were incredibly insecure back then. I only wanted to help you learn to accept things, so you’d stop seeing everyone around me as an enemy.” I stared at him. “So you knew this would happen? You knew I would forget?” He fell silent for a heartbeat. “I knew it would hurt you. I didn’t think you’d actually lose your memory.” Dr. Reynolds slid a consent form across the desk. “I do not recommend proceeding today. Unless Miss Sienna consents herself, we cannot perform the exposure therapy.” Ross picked up a pen. “I’ll sign for her.” I pressed my palm over the paper. “I don’t consent.” His brow furrowed. “Sienna, don’t you want to remember me?” Gemma intervened, her eyes red. “Sienna, Ross cancelled two major board meetings and went to so much trouble to gather all these things for you. Please don’t let his efforts go to waste.” I looked at Ross. I saw the exhaustion in his eyes, but I also saw the sheer confidence. He was absolutely certain I was just throwing another tantrum. He was certain that once he laid out our past, I would fall right back into line. There was a knock on the door, and Ross’s assistant stepped in. “Mr. Ross, the riverfront venue is ready. The event planners want to know if we are proceeding with the proposal setup from seven years ago.” The proposal setup. My fingers went completely numb, and a veil seemed to lift from my mind. The cold rain from seven years ago. The smell of paint in the studio. The crooked S on the blue scarf. And his voice under the fireworks: On our seventh year, I’m going to make you my wife. The memories rushed back. But as they flooded my mind, they felt utterly foreign. The man standing before me had torn those promises apart, handed the pieces to another woman, and now expected me to cherish the wreckage as proof of his love. Ross didn’t notice the shift. He let out a sigh of relief, as if he had finally caught a lifeline. “Perfect. Sienna, let’s go to the riverfront. I’m going to give you the proposal I owed you. Once you see the fireworks, you’ll remember.” Gemma’s face drained of color, but she still reached out to grab his sleeve. “Ross, let me come too. Just in case Sienna gets overwhelmed, I can help explain the details to her.” Ross hesitated for only a second before nodding. “Alright. Come with us.” I looked down and smiled quietly. I reached into the album, tore out the very last blank page, and slid it into my bag. The wind off the river was freezing. In the center of the terrace stood the framed fireworks painting with the smudged signature. Beside it lay the blue scarf, the silver necklace, and the empty photo album with its blank slots. Ross handed a velvet ring box to Gemma. “Keep this for a moment. Give it back to me when the fireworks start.” Gemma took the box, a triumphant gleam in her eyes. “Of course.” He turned to me, offering his hand. “Sienna, stop playing games. Walk over to the painting with me.” I looked at his outstretched hand, then at the ring box in Gemma’s fingers, and finally at the sky where the first firework was about to launch. Ross finally noticed how calm I was. His brow creased. “Sienna, did you remember something?” Without answering him, I reached out and took the ring box from Gemma’s hands. I popped it open. Engraved on the inside of the band were two letters. They weren’t T and S. They were T and G. Gemma lunged forward to grab it, her voice shaking. “Sienna, don’t mess with that. It’s just a placeholder for the ceremony.” I snapped the box shut and placed it back in Ross’s palm. “Keep your placeholder. And keep your co-star.”
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