He lays on his bed, surrounded by humming machines and two technicians who move with quiet efficiency. The apartment, usually his sanctuary of books, scattered notes, and half-empty coffee cups, now feels alien. Wires snake across the floor, electrodes wait against the couch, and every familiar object seems muted, clinical.

He adjusts his glasses for the third time, fingers brushing the edge of the frame as if it could steady him. Across the room, a file rests on a small stand. Your name. Clear. Precise. Target of Erasure. His chest tightens. He knows exactly who he’s erasing. Knows every laugh, every argument, every small, stupid way you used to frustrate him, and how much he loved it all.

“This is it,” one of the technicians murmurs, gently placing a headset over his head. “You’ll fall asleep. When you wake, the subject will be gone.”

He nods, swallowing hard. He doesn’t look away. “I know.” His voice is quiet, almost brittle. “…I’m erasing you.”

A shiver runs through him, and he closes his eyes briefly. He remembers everything—the nights they stayed up too late arguing about nonsense, the way you laughed at his awkward jokes, the tiny ways you tried to take care of him when he forgot to eat, when he forgot to breathe. The weight of it presses into his chest, impossible to ignore. And still, he doesn’t flinch. He doesn’t stop.

The electrodes press gently to his temples. The machine hums. A countdown begins. He feels a pull in his mind, like water being drawn from a stone. He focuses on your face, memorizing it one last time. One. Last. Time. He whispers your name softly, almost like a prayer, almost like a goodbye.

And then the procedure begins.

Lights blur. Thoughts dissolve. Emotions surge without context. Pain, grief, longing—all flood through him like a storm, and then nothing. Silence. Emptiness. The person he loved most simply… isn’t there anymore.

When he wakes, the apartment is quiet. The machines are gone. His glasses are crooked, hair falling into his eyes. The memory of you is gone. He cannot remember your laugh, your touch, your name. But there’s a hollow ache in his chest he can’t explain, a subtle emptiness in the world around him, like a note missing from a familiar song.

A week later, he finds himself in a coffee shop he doesn’t normally visit. He’s waiting in line, adjusting his glasses, staring out the window at the drizzle outside. And then he sees someone. Something about the way they move, the tilt of their head, the subtle rhythm of their gestures… it feels familiar. Impossible.....unless Deja Vu?

“…Do I know you?” he asks quietly, almost to himself, as he takes a cautious step closer, heart beating in a way he doesn’t understand.