My fiancé is the youngest professor at the university. Thoughtful, gentle, everyone admires him. When I was diagnosed with Alzheimer’s and had only ten days of memory left, he brought a female student home. That night, through the crack in the door, I watched her throw herself into his arms. He didn’t push her away. The next day, I asked about the lipstick stain. He just smiled and called it a misunderstanding. On the third day, someone on a motorcycle knocked me down. He said I was being paranoid. On the fourth, she poured scalding soup on my hand. He stepped in front of her. “How did you become so cruel?” Today is the fifth day. I have less than seventy-two hours of memory left. He just took a call at my hospital bedside. “Don’t be scared, Erica. I’ll be right there.” After he left, I pulled out the IV needle and wrote on the first page of my notebook the last sentence I’ll ever remember in this life. “Don’t forgive Richard.” Later, I really did forget him. But he stood at my door holding roses, his eyes red. “Please forgive me.”
Lauren POV Richard is the youngest university professor. He has a fiancée with memory decline. That’s me. On the tenth day of my countdown, he brought Erica home late at night. “Professor, coming over so late… won’t we wake Lauren?” Erica’s voice was soft, laced with just the right amount of concern. “It’s fine,” Richard whispered. “She took her medicine. She’ll sleep through anything.” But I hadn’t taken my medicine tonight. I lay still in the darkness of the master bedroom, eyes closed, listening to every sound outside the door. On the nightstand sat today’s diagnosis: early-stage Alzheimer’s, rapidly deteriorating, irreversible. The doctor said my remaining lucid time could be counted in days. Conservatively. In the last ten days of my memory, Richard chose to fill them with someone else. Fine. At least before I forgot everything, I could finally see for myself what this “gifted but troublesome” student of his actually looked like. The bedroom door eased open. Richard tiptoed in and grabbed the thin blanket at the foot of the bed. Out of habit, he leaned over to tuck me in, his movements as gentle as always. But when he got close, the sharp bite of whiskey mixed with some unfamiliar vanilla perfume invaded my lungs without warning. Suffocating. Smothering. He turned and left, leaving the door ajar behind him. The warm yellow light from the living room immediately sliced through the crack, falling precisely on the open diagnosis report on the nightstand. But he didn’t see it. His attention, his gaze, even his heart had long been occupied by someone else. Their conversation drifted in without any restraint. “I’m hungry…” Erica’s voice was sweet and soft, dripping with practiced coquettishness and a familiarity that felt almost natural.. “Make me something to eat, okay?” But how would Erica know that Richard hadn’t cooked in years? Back in college, we were drowning in student loans. So poor we could barely scrape by. Richard went to class during the day and worked restaurant kitchens at night and on weekends. The dirtiest, most exhausting jobs. He’d come home with his hands bleached white from soap, wrinkled, his palms and fingertips covered in burns and knife cuts. With those hands, he earned money cent by cent, saving it all to put both of us through our degrees. I wanted to work part-time at a coffee shop, but Richard refused. Under the dim streetlights, he took my hand and kissed each finger one by one. “Lauren,” his voice was low and hoarse, “we were both struggling before. Now that we’re together, I’ll bear the hardship alone. You’re going to be a painter. You need to take care of your hands.” Throughout those four years of college, my somewhat rough hands were actually nurtured white and delicate by him. Later, the night he got his doctoral acceptance, we squeezed together on our apartment’s narrow balcony, sharing an employee meal sandwich Richard had brought back from the restaurant. Eyes red, he swore that once he became a tenured professor and life got better, he’d never set foot in a kitchen again. Never touch those greasy fumes. “What do you want to eat?” In the living room, Richard’s voice came with a laugh, cutting through my memories. His tone even carried a hint of performative tenderness. “I’m going to show off my skills.” He was casually, almost proudly, dissecting that period of hardship for another girl to hear. The one he’d sworn to bury. But I still remembered. Not long ago, when my gastritis flared up in the middle of the night and I was drenched in cold sweat from the pain, Richard’s eyes went red with worry. He stayed up all night. Weakly, I asked if he could make me some oatmeal. He was quiet for a long time. Finally, he just held me, his voice tired and hollow. “Lauren, I really… don’t want to do those things anymore. I’ve forgotten how.” Forgotten? From the kitchen came the sounds of efficiency. The pan heating. Butter sliding in with a sizzle. Every sound was like an ice-tempered blade, precisely piercing my eardrums and heart. He hadn’t forgotten. He was even still skilled at it.
Lauren POV The aroma of the omelet quickly filled the air, mixed with Erica’s undisguised delighted praise. “Richard, this smells amazing! You’re so talented!” She no longer called him Professor, but used his name directly. “Eat up,” Richard’s voice carried a barely perceptible tenderness. “After you finish, remember to organize the data from those papers.” “Richard,” Erica’s tone held some dissatisfaction. “Tomorrow’s the weekend. Can’t you let me rest?” “Behave.” Richard’s voice was full of laughter, carrying a flirtatious tone. “Your Lauren is still sleeping.” I let out a cold laugh. So he still remembered I was in the room, but this reminder sounded more like part of their flirtation. That aroma and those laughs were like fine needles, stabbing every inch of my skin with unbearable pain. I propped myself up, wanting to get out of bed and shut that crack of light completely, isolating everything outside. The moment I sat up, my gaze pierced through the door crack and froze on the living room. Under the warm yellow light, Richard’s hand came to rest on Erica’s head, gently tousling her hair. His gaze was soft, focused, filled with that particular tenderness, the kind you give a small creature that trusts you completely. “You cook for Lauren every day? She’s one lucky woman.” Erica’s words came out muffled, her mouth still full. Hard to tell if it was envy or jealousy. Lucky? I couldn’t even remember the last time I’d eaten something he actually cooked himself. “You talk too much.” Richard’s scolding was light, weightless. Even as he said it, he reached out and brushed back a strand of hair that had nearly fallen into her plate. His fingertips grazed her earlobe. But the look on his face I’d never seen it. Not even when we were most in love. The suspicion I’d been suppressing, afraid to examine too closely, was now brutally nailed before my eyes by this crystal-clear scene, beyond any argument. Why? How could a man who kissed me good morning every day and said “I love you” before bed so easily give his love to someone else? A violent headache struck without warning. A voice screamed in my mind: Get out there! Throw her out! Now! But my body felt as heavy as if trapped in a quagmire. Even my fingers were difficult to move. I desperately gathered strength to prop myself up, finally making it to the door, my hand landing on the cold doorknob. Just as I was about to force out words, Erica suddenly stood up from the sofa. Like an uninhibited cat, she sprang up without warning, pressed her hands on Richard’s shoulders, pushed him back against the sofa cushions, then leaned down and kissed him. My breathing stopped. I couldn’t see Richard’s expression. I only saw that he didn’t refuse. His hand paused in the air for a moment, then slowly, gently settled on Erica’s waist. Five seconds, ten seconds… Time stretched infinitely, each second a slow execution of my nerves. That hand on Erica’s waist even tightened slightly, drawing her closer to him. So there was no need for speculation, no need for excuses or justifications. The answer was laid bare before me. Perhaps there was no need to rush out anymore. This home that once belonged to him and me would soon have a new mistress. And what I was about to lose wasn’t just my memory. I quietly closed the door. I slumped against it, sinking to the cold floor. No hysteria, no sobbing. Only cold, hollow despair spreading from the deepest part of my heart, freezing my blood. Trembling, I pulled open the deepest drawer of the nightstand, fumbled for the white pill bottle, unscrewed it, poured all the pills into my palm, and swallowed them all at once. In the last instant before consciousness was completely swallowed by endless darkness, my extremely blurred hearing caught the nauseating sticky sounds of kissing from outside the door, and their lowered conversation: “Mm… Richard, just now, what was that sound?” Richard’s voice was slightly hoarse, mixed with the soft rustle of fabric. “Probably just the wind.”
Lauren POV When I woke up the next day, I found myself lying on the floor. That diagnosis page had somehow fallen beside my hand. According to the doctor, starting today, I had only nine days of memory left. I hadn’t died. I’d just been unconscious all night. But why was last night’s scene still branded in my mind, so painfully clear, as if I’d never forget it? I didn’t dare open the door, didn’t dare verify whether any traces of last night remained in the living room. Just then, Richard pushed the door open. I hastily shoved the diagnosis under the bed. “Lauren, why are you sitting on the floor?” He spoke while bending down to lift me up and place me back on the bed. He took my hand and lowered his head to kiss the back of it, his new stubble scratching my skin with a slight itch. “I’m sorry, I pulled an all-nighter on the project yesterday. Did you sleep well? What did the doctor say? Is there anything you want to eat? I’ll have the housekeeper prepare…” A string of concerns rushed at me. For a moment I felt dazed. Through the door that wasn’t fully closed, I saw the living room was as tidy as usual, as if everything last night had been nothing but an absurd delusion from my illness. “The doctor said I’m doing well.” I lowered my eyes, my voice as soft as a murmur. “Today… I want to eat breakfast you’ve made.” Richard ruffled my hair, his tone carrying some helpless reproach. “Lauren, look-you forgot again… I’ll have the housekeeper make it for you, okay?” “Never mind.” I pushed away his hand, but the motion froze mid-air. Below the collar of his shirt, a vivid lipstick mark stabbed at my eyes. “What’s this?” My finger trembled as I pointed at it. “It’s nothing.” Richard’s tone was casual. “Yesterday, Erica, that graduate student I’m always talking about, we were celebrating the project’s progress and she accidentally smudged it during a group hug. She even insisted on washing it for me, but she’s still paying off her student loans. How could she afford dry cleaning? I’ll introduce you to her sometime. You might like her.” “What if I don’t like her?” I heard my voice turn cold as ice. Richard first froze, then pulled me into a tight embrace, his chin resting on top of my head, his voice muffled with deliberate reassurance. “If you don’t like her, you don’t like her. She’s really… just my student anyway. You just need to like me.” “Richard,” I said calmly, leaning against him, “let’s break up.” Richard’s brow furrowed, as if he couldn’t process how the topic had shifted so quickly. “Why? Because of that lipstick mark? That was a misunderstanding.” I turned my face away, avoiding his scrutinizing gaze, my voice dropping. “Last night I… dreamed you were cheating on me.” Richard’s whole body suddenly stiffened, as if instantly frozen. But the rigidity lasted only the briefest instant. Then he let out a breath, his tense shoulders sagging slightly. Next, he released me, his eyes rapidly reddening, his voice tinged with panic and pain. “How could that be? Lauren, it was just a nightmare. I told you I’d love you forever, only you… Don’t say things like that anymore, okay? You know I can’t bear it…” “But I’ve forgotten.” I lifted my head, looking into his eyes, enunciating each word. “Richard, someday I’ll completely forget that you love me, even forget that I love you. While I still remember, let’s part on good terms.” What I actually wanted to say was: while I haven’t yet caught the lie in person, while I haven’t yet shredded this last bit of dignity, let’s part on good terms. I didn’t want my final memories to be filled entirely with pain and degradation. “Don’t…” Richard’s voice trembled uncontrollably. He pulled me tight again, his arms straining with force, almost as if trying to meld me into his bones and blood, as if that could somehow keep me. “We’ve been together so long. I can’t live without you, and you can’t live without me, right? If you forget, I’ll just stay by your side to remind you, a thousand times, ten thousand times…” His embrace was so forceful, his voice so choked. It sounded deeply devoted. But the faint, sweet vanilla-fruit scent clinging to the shirt pressed against my cheek, thread by thread, pervasive and inescapable, seemed to silently remind me: last night was not a delusion, not a nightmare. It was evidence that he’d embraced someone else. Perhaps Richard still loved me, but he’d also fallen in love with someone else.
Lauren POV Richard stayed home all weekend. But whenever the person saved as “Dummy” sent a message, he’d reply instantly. When the phone rang, he never delayed. “If you’re busy, just go to work. I don’t need company.” I said with my back to him. Each time he returned from a call, Richard would placate me. “Lauren, Erica is eager to learn. As her professor, I can’t discourage a student’s enthusiasm, right?” “I’ll take you to campus on Monday,” he paused, “and introduce you to her properly.” I hummed in agreement. That Monday, I went early. After graduation, I’d never returned to our alma mater. Everything on campus had changed. Those corners that once held memories of Richard and me had long since vanished. I had no choice but to go to his office to wait. Before I even reached the door, muffled laughter drifted out, mixed with that familiar, coquettish voice. “Professor, how can you call me dumb!” It was Erica. I stopped outside the half-open door. Inside, Erica was leaning intimately close to Richard’s side. Then, she quite naturally picked up the iced Americano from his desk and took a sip through the straw he’d used. The next second, as if chilled, she pouted and whimpered. Richard immediately leaned in, naturally reaching out to wipe the coffee from the corner of her mouth, the gesture as intimate as if treating a lover. “Not cold anymore, not cold anymore.” For the first time, I realized a person’s happiness could actually be heard in their tone. I pushed the door open. Erica jumped up in alarm, stumbling backward and landing on the floor in her panic. Richard didn’t help her. He walked straight toward me, somewhat reproachfully. “Why did you come early?” “I shouldn’t have come? Did I interrupt you two?” My voice was ice-cold. But Erica had already put on a bright smile and rushed over, trying affectionately to link her arm through mine. “Lauren, Lauren! I finally get to meet you!” This was my first time meeting Erica face-to-face. She was indeed young and beautiful, full of vitality. But the scent of her perfume mixed with that night’s scene, replaying over and over in my mind, made me nauseous. I pushed her away and forced out a smile. “I’ve heard Richard mention you often too.” “Really?” Erica exclaimed, but her eyes gleamed as she looked at Richard. “Then what does the Professor usually say about me?” Though she spoke to me, her gaze remained entangled with him. I was merely a prop in their flirtation. “He says you study hard…” I paused, looking at her. “But I need to remind you that asking academic questions doesn’t require cuddling up to your professor. And as a student, sharing a straw with your professor isn’t appropriate. That’s a basic boundary.” Erica’s face went pale. She shrank behind Richard, her voice trembling. “Lauren… do you not like me?” “Lauren!” Richard suddenly called out my full name sharply, his face darkening. “You’ve gone too far. She’s just a student. The culture here is more open-everyone’s casual. That’s all.” “A student?” I laughed, pointing at the coffee. “A student would use your straw? You’d wipe a student’s mouth?” “She just wasn’t careful! We didn’t think that much about it!” Richard’s voice rose, tinged with the irritation of being exposed. “Do you have to be so aggressive?” “Not careful?” I grabbed the coffee and hurled it violently in their direction! The cold, dark brown liquid splashed out from the cup, splattering everywhere. Richard’s first reaction was to turn and shield Erica in his arms, not caring that he got soaked, not caring about his expensive shirt now a mess. Then he escorted Erica out of the office. “I’ll treat you to dinner another time to make up for this. Don’t hold it against your Lauren-she’s sick and in a bad mood.” Richard sighed softly, crouching down to start cleaning up, his voice weary. “Lauren, the doctor said you can’t get agitated.” Again. Using my patient status to frame me, turning all accusations into unreasonable outbursts. “Richard. That night, in the living room, I saw you two kissing.” Richard’s hand picking up glass shards suddenly froze. “I saw it.” I repeated. Richard didn’t look up. He continued gathering the fragments, his voice somewhat impatient. “Are you done making a scene? My conscience is clear.” My conscience is clear. What a wonderful phrase-my conscience is clear. All the indignation, anger, and pain felt like punching cotton in the face of those four words. Since Richard wasn’t willing to part amicably and wasn’t willing to speak plainly, why should I keep entangling myself?
Lauren POV I don’t know how I walked out of that office or how I crossed that campus corridor-once familiar, now so strange it made my heart panic. I only remember forcibly suppressing the rage and humiliation that threatened to explode in my chest, each step like walking on knife points. Until I crossed that solemn campus gate and cold air hit my face. The world seemed to have its mute button pressed, followed by a massive, heart-pounding sense of emptiness that swept up from my feet like a tsunami, instantly swallowing me whole. The anger disappeared. The humiliation evaporated. Even the nauseating scene from the office minutes ago became blurry. I stood on the bustling street like an empty shell. Who am I? Why am I here? What just happened? Where am I going? Where is that place called “home”? Panic crept up my spine in fine threads. With trembling hands, I reached for my phone in my pocket. My fingertips touched only darkness-it was dead. I looked around in confusion. Traffic streamed past, voices buzzed, everything distorted and distant. A violent dizziness struck. I staggered. Just then, a sharp engine roar approached from far away. A heavy motorcycle, like an out-of-control beast, shot past my side. The rearview mirror violently scraped my arm. The massive impact made me lose balance completely, throwing me heavily backward. The back of my head struck the cold, hard curb with a dull sound. Searing pain exploded. My vision began to spin and darken. The noisy world rapidly lost color and sound. As consciousness sank completely into darkness, I used my last bit of strength to look toward that motorcycle. On the back seat, a figure turned back. It was Erica. She lifted the edge of her helmet, chin tilted slightly up, a triumphant curve on her lips. That Erica-the pure and sensible student in Richard’s mouth-had hit me and driven away. I don’t know how long passed before consciousness was dragged back by the pungent smell of disinfectant and vague pain. I struggled to open my eyes. It took a while for my vision to focus on the pale ceiling. A warm, moist sensation came from the back of my hand. A bit itchy. I turned my head slightly. Richard was collapsed at the bedside, tightly gripping my hand. He looked terrible-hair disheveled, heavy dark circles under his eyes, stubble covering his chin, eyes bloodshot and red-rimmed, face still streaked with undried tears. Tears were dripping one by one onto the back of my hand. Sensing my movement, Richard’s head snapped up, his bloodshot eyes instantly blooming with joy. “Lauren? You’re awake? How do you feel? Does your head still hurt? Are you uncomfortable anywhere? You…” He spoke incoherently, his voice terribly hoarse. His last question was asked cautiously, tinged with enormous fear. “Do you still remember… who I am?” Looking at his face, now written with exhaustion, I felt only hypocrisy. Somewhere in my chest came a delayed, dull pain. I pulled at the corner of my mouth, letting out an extremely soft, cold sneer. “What a shame,” I heard my own dry voice say, “I still remember.” “Thank God! Lauren, you still remember…” Richard suddenly bent down and pulled me into his arms. His arms trembled as he crushed me against him, as if trying to press me into his own body. “I’m sorry. It’s all my fault. Let’s not fight anymore. Never again. The doctor said hitting your head might affect your condition. I was terrified, Lauren. I really can’t lose you…” His embrace was fierce. His voice broke. They say hugs are love’s highest form. In that moment, my hatred for him seemed to crack, burned open by that embrace. Grievance. Resentment. The last shreds of love. All of it surged toward the crack, desperate to spill out. I almost hugged him back. Almost believed in this warmth. Almost pretended the pain never happened. My hand lifted, just slightly. Fingertips trembling. Almost touching him. Then a sharp, piercing ringtone shattered the warmth of the hospital room. Richard’s body tensed almost imperceptibly. A reflex. He let go of me and pulled his phone from his pocket. When he answered and the screen lit up, I saw the caller ID clearly. Little Dummy. That nickname cut right through me. Like ice. I still remembered everything. How Erica threw herself at him. How they were together in the office. How on the back of that motorcycle, Erica turned back at me with that triumphant, venomous smile. “I have something to deal with here. Erica will come by later…” Richard turned to tell me. “It was Erica,” I cut him off, my voice flat, no ripple at all. I watched his face as he turned back. The flicker of irritation at being interrupted. “She was the one who had someone hit me.”
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