You Love Him
Wren
The alarm’s already going when I open my eyes. I lie still and listen to it getting louder, waiting to remember why I need to be awake. Morning light shows through the curtains beside the bed. My phone’s on the nightstand, close enough that I should be able to reach it without looking, but my fingers catch the edge of the case and push it farther away.
I turn onto my side and get hold of it before it falls.
7:12 AMMEDS.EAT.CHECK NOTES.
“Right,” I whisper, and silence it.
I sit up too quickly. The room shifts, and I put my feet on the floor while I wait for it to settle. There’s no reason to hurry. Whatever the alarm wanted, I’m awake now. I keep the phone in both hands and open the notes app, where a list is pinned above everything else.
Morning: Take meds.Blue bottle.Drink water.Eat something plain.Read mirror.Check calendar.
I read it twice. I can manage the water. Starting with something I can actually do seems better than sitting here trying to remember writing the list.
The apartment’s quiet when I get up, apart from traffic outside and the refrigerator running in the kitchen. I recognise the way to the bathroom. That helps until I reach the doorway and see the mirror.
Yellow, white, and pale purple notes cover the edges of the glass. Some are straight; others overlap, their corners lifting. I’ve left myself enough space to see my face, though I don’t look at it yet. I read the nearest square instead.
Take meds before coffee.
Below it, pressed on harder:
Don’t double-dose. Check pill case first.
Two more notes sit beneath it.
Eat even if you aren’t hungry.
Lights low if headache starts.
I recognise the handwriting, including the way I’ve crowded the last few words onto a line instead of starting another. A few notes have dates. Yesterday. Two days ago. Last week. I try to picture myself standing here with the pen, but I can only see what’s in front of me now.
The blue bottle sits beside a plastic pill case. Wednesday’s compartment is open and empty. I check the date on my phone, then look back at the case.
“Already done,” I say.
I leave the bottle alone. There’s a glass beside the sink, and I drink from it before noticing the note underneath.
Fresh water before bed. You did this for yourself.
I hold the glass a little longer. I wish I could remember that much, at least. Filling it. Putting it here. Going to bed expecting to get up and need it.
When I set it down, I notice the pale purple square between two of the practical reminders. There’s no date on this one, and the writing isn’t cramped. Three words sit in the middle of the paper.
You love him.
I read it again, then look at the notes on either side. Food. Lights. Medication. Nothing that tells me who he is.
“That’s not helpful.”
I peel it off and check the back. Blank. I hold it up to the light anyway, as if I might’ve written something too faint to see. There’s only the dent of the pen coming through from the other side.
Whoever wrote this knew his name. I knew his name. I must’ve thought I’d still know it this morning, even with instructions about water and breakfast all around it.
I turn towards the doorway. No one’s in the bedroom. I haven’t heard another person moving, and there’s no voice from the kitchen asking what’s taking so long. I’m relieved for a moment, then ashamed of being relieved when I don’t even know who I’m hoping isn’t here.
My reflection catches my attention as I turn back. Lavender hair hangs around my shoulders. My freckles look darker against my pale skin, and my eyes are swollen enough that I might’ve cried last night. I lean closer, searching my own face with an urgency that makes me feel foolish. It can’t tell me what happened either.
I put the note back. It goes on crooked, but I leave it that way.
“Check the calendar,” I say, reading the last instruction from my phone.
There’s an appointment at ten with Dr. Vale. Follow-up. Bring symptom log. I don’t want to go, although I can’t remember enough about the last appointment to justify refusing. I stare at the words until the screen begins to dim, then tap it awake and check the time again.
I have time to get ready. I ought to eat something first. Instead, I stand at the sink wishing I could have one ordinary morning before I start finding out what’s wrong with me.
Eventually I put the phone down and leave the bathroom. The kitchen drawers have labels, and there’s a whiteboard on the fridge. By the front door, a basket marked OUTSIDE THINGS holds my wallet, keys, and sunglasses. A tied rubbish bag waits beside it, under another reminder.
Take trash out before appointment.
That, at least, has an obvious beginning and end. I pull on sneakers, take my keys and the bag, and step outside.
The hallway lights make me squint. I’m pulling my door shut when the one opposite opens, and a man steps out with his keys in his hand. He has messy dark hair, tattooed arms, and more ink showing above the neck of his black shirt. Two pieces of silver catch the light beneath his lower lip.
Snake bites. I know what those are. I’m glad to know something without checking.
He stops with his other hand still on the doorframe. I wait for him to move, but he’s looking at me, and after a few seconds I feel obliged to speak.
“Morning.”
“Morning,” he says. His gaze moves over my face before he lets go of the frame. He doesn’t shut his door.
I glance down to check that I’m dressed, which is embarrassing even though there’s no reason for him to know what I’m doing. Then I look back at him. “Sorry. Do we know each other?”
His fingers close around the keys. “We’ve met.”
“Recently?”
“Yes.”
I wait, but he seems to think that answers the question. Technically it does. It doesn’t explain why he’s still watching me like he expects me to say something else.
“I have some memory issues,” I tell him. I don’t like saying it to someone I don’t recognise, but I like standing here feeling rude even less. “So if you introduced yourself and I’ve forgotten, I’m sorry. It’s not because I wasn’t listening.”
“You don’t need to apologise.” He pauses, then adds, “I’m Noah. Noah Hayes. I live across the hall.”
I look at the open door behind him. Of course he does. I’ve just watched him come through it. There’s something about his name, though, that makes it hard to move on to the next sensible thing to say. I repeat it silently and wait for a face, a conversation, anything I can connect to it.
“Wren,” I offer at last.
“I know.”
My grip tightens on the bag. “Because I told you?”
“Yes. You told me.”
His answer comes more readily this time. I ought to be grateful, but I’m starting to dislike having to pull each piece out of him. He knows whether we’ve spoken once or a dozen times. He knows if I usually stop to chat or walk past without looking up. I can’t even tell whether I’m behaving differently enough to worry him.
“I need to get rid of this,” I say, lifting the bag.
He steps back towards his doorway, leaving me room to pass. “Go ahead.”
I walk to the rubbish chute at the end of the hall. The bag catches against the opening, and I shove it through harder than I need to. The metal door falls shut with a clang that goes straight through my head.
“Damn it.”
I keep my hand on the handle until the sound stops echoing. When I turn, Noah’s still outside his apartment. He hasn’t followed me. He hasn’t gone anywhere at all.
I walk back more slowly. My own door is close enough now that I could unlock it and end this, but I stop before I reach it.
“You weren’t surprised,” I say. “When I told you about my memory.”
“No.”
“Most people would ask something.” I shift my keys into the right hand. “Or tell me they forget names too. You looked like you already knew what I meant.”
“I did know.” He looks down at the keys he’s holding, then back at me. “This has happened before.”
For a second I think he means the conversation, that I’ve told him about the problem already. Then I see how carefully he’s watching me, and I can’t make myself settle for that explanation.
“What has happened before?”
He doesn’t answer immediately. I step back until my shoulder touches my door.
“Noah. Please just tell me.”
“You’ve forgotten me before,” he says.
I hear him clearly. That’s part of the problem. There isn’t a word I can ask him to repeat, or a noise I can blame for misunderstanding. He stands ten feet from my front door, looking at me as though he’s waiting to see how much of that I can bear.
“No. I need to go inside.”
“All right.” He stays beside his door while I get my key into the lock. I miss the first time and have to use my other hand to steady it. Before I can step through, he says my name.
I stop with my back to him.
“You might’ve written yourself something about me.”
The purple note comes back so clearly that I can see its crooked edge. I’ve been trying not to think about it since he told me his name.
“I don’t know what you mean,” I say.
He lets the lie pass. I go inside, close the door, and keep my hand on the knob until I’m certain he isn’t going to knock. Then I look towards the bathroom.
I still don’t remember Noah Hayes. But I think I know who the note means.
You love him.
