Forgotten

"I understand that this news isn’t what we were expecting, Ethan, but we have to stay positive. There are now all kinds of treatments that can slow down the progression of the disease. Alzheimer’s isn’t what it was twenty years ago."

The neurologist’s words hung in the air, each note carefully composed yet devoid of melody. His tone was detached; a practiced recitation honed over countless iterations. He sprinkled in reassurances, but they rang hollow, unable to penetrate the growing void within me.

I had noticed the signs. Memory lapses. Moments of disorientation that left me grasping for coherence. The struggle to find words I once wielded fluently in three languages. But I had brushed them aside. Stress, I told myself. Fatigue. Nothing a little omega-3, some vitamin E, and a few good nights of sleep couldn’t fix. Right?

Right?

Wrong.

When he said it—Alzheimer’s—the word cut through me. Yet, paradoxically, I felt numb, as if my mind had wrapped itself in layers of fog to shield me from the truth.

Denial?

His voice receded into background noise; a distant hum drowned by the rush of my thoughts.

I turned to the window, desperate for an escape from the suffocating sterility of the room. The white walls, the fluorescent lights—a cruel reflection of a future I could barely fathom.

Would my mind become as empty, as lifeless?

A once-vibrant canvas drained of color, reduced to a pale shadow of its former self?

Outside, the world teemed with life. Children played, their laughter faint but persistent. An ice cream vendor basked in the midday sun, surrounded by a cheerful crowd. The kaleidoscope of colors mocked me, a vivid contrast to the dull ache settling in my chest.

“Ethan?”

The doctor’s voice pulled me back.

“Yes, I understand. These medications—they won’t cure me, will they? They’ll just slow things down. But how much?”

“It’s hard to say,” he replied. “The effects vary. We’ll start with Donepezil and reassess in three months. It’s going to be okay, Ethan.”

I forced a bitter smile.

“Does it matter? I’ll forget it all anyway, won’t I?”

His uneasy smile faltered as he handed me the MRI results and prescription.

“Talk to my secretary. She’ll schedule your follow-up.”

The secretary’s timid smile greeted me as I approached her desk. Her bright blue eyes and delicate demeanor seemed incongruous in this place of clinical detachment. “Three months, Mr. Ellery?” she asked.

“Yes.”

“Would you like an email reminder?”

“That would be helpful,” I replied, managing another hollow smile.

The glass doors closed behind me, and I inhaled deeply, letting the fresh air fill my lungs. For a fleeting moment, I felt lighter, as if I could expel the weight pressing on my chest. But the relief was ephemeral. By the time I reached my car, the panic had set in.

Inside, I gripped the steering wheel, my knuckles white against the leather. My heart raced, a drumbeat of dread. Cold sweat traced a path down my spine, and my breaths came in shallow, uneven bursts. Tears spilled unbidden, warm streaks carving through the mask I’d worn all day.

Fear wasn’t the right word. Fear was fleeting, a shadow that passed with the sun. This was deeper, darker. A cold, relentless terror that wrapped itself around my lungs and squeezed, making each breath a Herculean effort. The realization hit me like a tidal wave: this wasn’t just a diagnosis. It was a slow, inevitable erasure of everything I was.

What had I built? A life meticulously planned, every decision deliberate, every step a testament to discipline. Twelve-hour workdays in service to a law firm that wouldn’t remember me six months after I was gone. My name would vanish from the files, my desk reassigned, my absence unnoticed.

My legacy? An empty parking spot and a savings account with no one to inherit it.

I wiped my hands, a futile ritual left over from the COVID days, as if I could scrub away the disease itself. The absurdity of it made me laugh—a hollow, bitter sound that echoed in the silence of the car.

Back at my condo, I parked in one of the two spots I had insisted on having. “For a future Mrs. Ellery,” I had told myself, full of misplaced optimism. Now, the second spot stood as empty as my hope.

The elevator’s tinny music lulled me into a state of numbness. By the time I stepped into my apartment, the familiar surroundings felt alien, as if the space had been stripped of its meaning. The floor-to-ceiling windows offered a breathtaking view of the city, but even that seemed to mock me with its indifference.

On the bar, a bottle of whiskey beckoned. I poured a glass and sank into the leather sofa, staring out at the city’s twinkling lights. Each sip burned, a small rebellion against the despair clawing at my chest. My mind, once sharp and unyielding, felt like sand slipping through my fingers. Memories blurred, and with them, the foundation of who I was.

I saw the long nights of law school, the endless hours spent honing my craft. The colleagues I had brushed aside, their camaraderie sacrificed on the altar of ambition. I had built walls around myself, brick by brick, only to find them crumbling from within.

What had it all been for?

The whiskey offered no answers. The silence pressed against me, suffocating in its weight. Desperation gripped me, and I reached for my phone, dialing a number I wished I didn’t know by heart.

A woman’s voice answered, smooth and detached.

“Agence Luxure.”

“Yes, good evening. Do you have anyone available tonight?”

“Of course. We have Jen, Leah, Stacey, and Alex.”

“Jen.”

“Certainly. What time and address?”

I gave her the information without hesitation, my voice mechanical, void of emotion. She hung up without pleasantries.

Moments later, my phone buzzed with an alert—a payment request for $150 from Tobby Collectors. The agency never left a trail, but their methods were predictable.

I dried off and slipped into something comfortable—gray sweats and a plain white T-shirt. The kind of outfit that wrapped you in quiet resignation, fitting for a night spent killing time. With my glass in hand, I wandered from room to room, aimless, as if searching for something in the emptiness.

When the doorbell finally rang, it startled me, pulling me from my restless drift.

I opened the door, and there she was. A woman with brown hair swept into a neat bun at the crown of her head. Octagonal glasses framed her striking green eyes, catching the dim light of the hallway. Her lips, painted a vivid red, seemed to glow against the muted tones of her face.

I stepped aside to let her in.

“Hello,” she said, her voice calm, almost disarming.

“Hi.” I extended my hand awkwardly. “I’m Ethan.”

“Oh, I know. We’ve met before.”

“Really?” My brow furrowed.

“Of course. I’ve been here more than once.”

I felt a pang of embarrassment. “I’m so sorry, I didn’t—”

“Don’t worry,” she interrupted gently, a glimmer of amusement—or was it pity?—in her eyes. “Honestly, it’s kind of comforting that you wouldn’t recognize me on the street.” She offered a faint smile, but it was brittle, more a gesture than a genuine expression.

“Can I offer you a drink?” I asked, eager to fill the sudden quiet.

“You know,” she replied, tilting her head, “the first rule is to never drink anything from a client. But…” She paused, her fingers brushing a strand of hair that had escaped her bun. “It’s been a long day. Why not?”

Her smile softened, a little more real this time, though still guarded.

I gestured toward the sofa, inviting her to sit while I poured us both a drink. Handing her the glass, I hesitated, then—without any clear reason—asked, “So… how was your day?”

She looked at me, her eyebrows raised slightly, as if caught off guard.

“Is that really what you want to ask me right now?”

“Mhm. Yeah. Why not?”

“Well, I don’t mind answering, but… you know this is your time, right?”

“We can still talk, can’t we?” I said, forcing a small smile.

“Of course,” she replied, her tone softening, though there was a flicker of something unreadable in her eyes. “I always request payment upfront. For security reasons.”

Her words weren’t harsh, but they carried a weight, a subtle reminder of the boundaries between us.

I reached for my phone, tapping quickly as I transferred the amount she mentioned. As I handed her the confirmation, a faint, almost imperceptible tension lingered between us—an unspoken acknowledgment that this was, at its core, a transaction, no matter how much I tried to make it something more.

“So, your day?” I asked again, attempting to pull the conversation into something resembling normalcy.

“Horrible,” she said, crossing her legs with practiced ease. “Some clients are… difficult.”

“That can’t always be easy.”

“It’s really not,” she replied, her tone sharp but tinged with weariness. Then, with a half-smile, she added, “Can you imagine one guy wanted me to cover myself in Pepto-Bismol while he, uh… you know.”

A laugh erupted from my chest, unbidden and loud, forcing me to choke on my whiskey. I barely managed to keep it from spilling out of my nose.

“No way! That’s impossible!” I gasped, trying to regain my composure.

“Oh, it’s real,” she said, leaning forward slightly, her expression both amused and dead serious. “He had boxes of the stuff—and a baby pool set up right in his living room. Full of Pepto. Completely pink.”

I couldn’t stop laughing, the absurdity of it cutting through the oppressive weight of the evening like a beam of unexpected light. For the first time in hours, I felt something loosen in my chest.

“Was that the worst you’ve had to deal with?” I asked, still chuckling.

“Oh no, not even close,” she replied with a smirk. “That was just today.”

“Well, sounds like your day was worse than mine,” I said, attempting levity.

“Oh, really? Tell me about yours,” she said, tilting her head in mock curiosity.

“Nothing much to tell,” I replied with a small, sheepish grin. “I ate an ice cream in the park.”

“Lucky you,” she said, her laugh light but genuine.

She stood from her seat, her movements fluid and deliberate, and then, without hesitation, settled herself on my lap, her legs straddling mine. My body tensed instinctively, caught between surprise and something I couldn’t name.

With delicate fingers, she brushed a stray lock of hair from my eyes, her touch impossibly gentle. Her green eyes searched mine.

“Are you still hungry enough to eat something else?” she said.

“Um… is it okay if we just… keep talking a bit?”

She seemed unsettled by the moment, quickly climbing off my lap and returning to her spot on the sofa, smoothing her skirt as she sat.

“I’ve got some Pepto-Bismol in my car if you’re interested,” she said, flashing a wide grin that seemed to mask her earlier unease.

I couldn’t help but smile at her wit, but my curiosity took hold. I asked about her life—her choices, her youth. Slowly, piece by piece, she let me in.

At first, she hesitated, her green eyes narrowing, as if calculating whether it was worth telling me. But then, something shifted. Slowly, she began to speak, her voice calm, but threaded with the kind of weariness that only comes from carrying too much for too long.

She told me about her children—two of them, both young. Their father had walked out the night her youngest was born, disappearing without a word or a backward glance. She’d been alone ever since, left to raise them in a city that swallowed the unprepared whole.

Her degree in literature, once a badge of ambition and promise, had turned into nothing more than an expensive piece of paper. “I thought it would mean something,” she said, her voice tightening. “I thought I would mean something.”

And then she told me about the night everything changed.

“The fridge was empty,” she said, her words clipped, as though each one cost her something to say. “I had nothing left. My son was crying because he was hungry, and I didn’t even have milk to give him. I tried to act like it didn’t matter, like I’d figure something out, but…” Her voice cracked for the first time, though she swallowed the break quickly.

“I knocked on my neighbor’s door. He was always friendly, always… watching. I asked him for help. I begged him. He smiled, like he’d been waiting for that moment.”

Her gaze drifted to the glass in her hand, her thumb running along the rim. “He said yes. But there was a price. A favor. Something he wanted in return.”

She stopped, the silence between us deafening.

“And?” I asked, barely breathing, though part of me didn’t want to know.

“That favor opened the door to this life,” she said simply. “Once you cross that line, there’s no going back. People find out, and they look at you differently. Opportunities disappear. You disappear.”

Her voice hardened then, like a shield snapping into place. “I do what I have to do. For them. For my boys. But don’t mistake survival for choice. Don’t think for a second that I wouldn’t trade all of this for a full fridge and a quiet, normal life.”

Her words were sharp and raw, leaving no space for pity, only the suffocating weight of reality.

I sat there, silent, trying to process the magnitude of what she had just shared. Her life was a tapestry of sacrifices, each thread woven with pain, resilience, and a quiet strength I couldn’t begin to fathom. She looked at me then, her eyes unguarded for the first time, heavy with truths too large to carry alone.

We talked through the night, our words weaving an unspoken truce against the loneliness that lingered in both of us. Her voice softened as she spoke of her children, her dreams, and the pieces of herself she had left behind. I listened, not out of politeness, but because I felt, for the first time in what seemed like forever, a connection that wasn’t transactional, that didn’t feel forced or hollow.

The dark sky outside the window began to shift, the inky black giving way to the faint blush of dawn. She glanced at her watch, and a flicker of panic crossed her face.

“I’m so sorry, I have to go,” she said, her tone apologetic but firm.

“Oh, of course. Go, go,” I stammered, rising awkwardly from the sofa. “I’m sorry I kept you so long.”

She paused, her gaze lingering on me for just a moment longer than I expected. Then she smiled, the kind of smile that carried warmth despite the weariness behind it. Leaning in, she kissed my cheek, her touch light and fleeting.

“This was… very pleasant,” she said, her voice soft but genuine.

I watched her as she left, the door clicking shut behind her. The condo fell into silence, broken only by the faint hum of the city waking outside.

I poured myself another glass of whiskey, losing count of how many I’d had. Sitting on the balcony, I stared at the sunrise bleeding across the skyline. My thoughts circled endlessly, like vultures around a dying thing. What was I going to become? A hollow shell of the man I once was, a specter doomed to haunt the ruins of a life now out of time, out of chances, out of hope.

What would I leave behind?

I drank my whiskey, the burn long gone, replaced by a numbness that crept deeper with every glass. Who would remember me? I poured another, drank again.

The city stretched out before me, the city of my birth, the city I once knew like the back of my hand. It felt distant now, hollow and indifferent, its lights cold against the encroaching dawn.

I picked up my phone. Logging into my bank account, I transferred everything I had to Jen. All of it.

Maybe she would remember me.

I didn’t need her to love me. I didn’t even need her to think of me fondly. But if, in some distant moment, she remembered that night—if she remembered the man who gave her everything he had without asking for anything in return—then maybe my life hadn’t been entirely in vain.

That was it, wasn’t it? The truth been circling all night. It wasn’t about being remembered for eternity. It wasn’t about leaving a legacy carved in stone. It was about this moment, this fleeting, fragile moment, where I could say, “I was here.” Where someone else could say, “I see you.”

The wind picked up, tugging harder now, as if it were urging me forward. I closed my eyes, feeling the weight in my chest lift, if only slightly. The fear was still there, but it had softened, dulled by the clarity of what I’d finally come to understand.

I tipped forward, letting the wind carry me. For a brief, infinite second, the city rushed up to meet me. And in the deafening silence of the fall, one thought crystallized, clear and undeniable:

I wasn’t chasing immortality. I wasn’t chasing meaning. I was chasing connection. A fleeting mark on someone else’s life—a ripple, small and imperfect, but real.

Because wasn’t that what life was, in the end? A desperate scream into the void, hoping someone, anyone, might hear it and say, “I see you. You were here.”