The Forgotten Story of Us

I almost think our government has made a mistake, because how could it be possible they’re letting me, at only 18 years of age, become a creative writer? But that isn’t possible, our government is precise, exact, and rational- there’s no reason to doubt them, never has been. I smile, “Evelynn!” I call out to my caretaker, of course I’ll miss her when I go off to work but it’s not an awful big deal.

Evelynn isn’t even really my parent, ever since our government realized how painful the loss of a loved one was they fixed things right away. Today, every man and woman between the ages of 22 and 25 is required to donate an egg or sperm which are inseminated in labs and then the resulting baby is assigned to a caretaker. Evelynn climbs up the stairs to my room, “I’m going to be a writer!” I tell her before she can get a word in, “Not some coffee runner, I’m going to be a real writer!” She smiles and pulls me into a hug, “I always knew you were special.”

Evelynn brings me pancakes with strawberries cut into little hearts on it, chattering away about how special the tradition is because “a caretaker always gives they’re little one strawberry pancakes on their last morning together because they need to eat a heart so they remember not to go around trying to get real ones.” It’s a cute tradition but I’m a little offended Evelynn thinks I’d go around loving someone, as if I dream of having my memory wiped. Some people think the practice of memory wiping is cruel but our government is sparing us heartbreak. Either way the pancakes are delicious. “Thank you Evelynn, I’ll miss you,” I tell her as I eat a last strawberry, “You’re welcome, good luck out there,” she tells me. And just like that I’m stepping into the world. 

Nerves kept me up all night and now that the excitement has worn off I feel exhausted. I go to get a coffee. I order a latte, give the coffee girl my name, and take a seat. While I’m waiting for my latte someone approaches me, “Ulysses?” I look up and find a pair of blue eyes staring at me peculiarly, I nod, “And you are?” “Carter, I’ve never heard your name anywhere other than the paper assigning me my work partner, you wouldn’t be a creative writer, would you?” I smile, “I am. Nice to meet you, Carter,” He returns the smile. He picks up his coffee- a mocha. It seems a little childish but I decide not to comment on it. 

The two of us walk to work together. I learn that Carter is something of a prodigy- developing a talent for writing at a young age, charming, and terribly arrogant; still, I can’t help but laugh at the things he says, even when they’re not funny in the slightest. We approach the office building and check in with our supervisor, “You lot seem close, don’t make a mistake and force our government to separate you,” he winked. The implication makes me want to throw up so I distance myself from Carter, but I still see him roll his eyes from the corner of my vision. We settle into our office but our supervisor’s comment has put a certain discomfort in the air, “What kind of story were you thinking about?” he asks me, I tell him about my story. A Sci-Fi, a world not as rational as our own, with a government less thoughtful than our own. But he seems less concerned about my idea and more so about my political views, “What makes you say there couldn’t be conflict in our own world? I’d say it’s quite a bit flawed. Are you not upset you’ll be alone for the rest of your life?" His tone is accusatory and it rubs me in the wrong way. “How about you mind your own business and focus on this story,” I snap. He drops it at once and we work on the story but his words echo in my head, gnawing at my consciousness, stealing attention from my work. Are you not upset you’ll be alone for the rest of your life?

By the time I finish my shift I’m irritated so I head straight home. But, despite my exhaustion, sleep seems to evade me. Are you not upset you’ll be alone for the rest of your life? I’d never thought about it before but now it’s all I can think about. I don’t want to be alone. I remember the stories I used to read as a child, about people so madly in love, about people so heartbroken. And a ban against love used to make so much sense, because who would want that? Things always seemed better this way. But now I feel like I’d rather be madly in love than alone. Rather be heartbroken than alone. 

When I head to work the next morning the atmosphere seems drab. The wind seems cold, harsh. The sunlight seems sharp, flaming. The streets seem uneven, cracked. I want to go home, I don’t want to work, and I certainly don’t want to see Carter again so he can plant more doubt in my mind. I hate the way he makes it seem to make sense. But it seems I’m stepping into the office all too soon and I haven’t even remembered my coffee. I sit down grouchily and then I notice Carter isn’t there, of course he’s late, I should’ve known someone who could get this job so easily would have little respect for it. 

Carter strolls into the office, 16 minutes late. “You took your time getting to work,” I remark, I don’t even try to keep the annoyance from my voice. But he puts down a coffee cup for me. I feel a pang of guilt for giving him attitude when he bought me coffee. I pick up the cup and take a sip.

“You really hate your main character, don’t you?” Carter chuckles in reference to my writing, and I should be offended but I can’t help but laugh. God he’s funny, I think but then remind myself he’s a conspiracy theorist. Yet the rest of the day goes stunningly- we manage to finish mapping out our main character and cover one of our defining moments. When our shift ends things are going so well we each decide to take an overtime shift. 

Taking an overtime shift was an awful idea. Because I can feel exhaustion seeping through and eating away at my common sense. Before I know it I’m asking Carter about our world and government, “I’d just like to fall in love, or at least have a family to love. And the government has taken that away from me,” he tells me. And when Carter says it it makes me hate the government. “Maybe I was wrong to hate you,” I chuckle, he smiles, “Hate? That’s a strong word,” he says it as if he’s terribly offended. I can’t help but laugh at that. The conversation moves to novels, he tells me all about his favorite author, about how she’s why he became a writer. I’ve never read one of her books but she sounds brilliant. Carter lends me a signed copy of one of her books, “That’s one of her best,” he tells me and that makes me smile. I don’t want to go home and be alone with my thoughts so I settle on the couch to read the book for a couple minutes first. 

I wake up, confused, because I’m not in my house. And that’s when I realize I’ve fallen asleep in the office, next to Carter. I almost shriek as I jump back. I run home. 

Maybe I shouldn’t have, I think on my way to work. I’ve made a habit of coming into the office hours early. Because work has become the best part of my day, because it’s the only part of my day that I’m not so alone. Talking to Carter about our book, sharing our thoughts on the novel he gave me. I find that he isn’t so bad, and maybe he has a point when it comes to the government. I begin to work more overtime but usually it’s to chat with Carter and read another chapter of the book. 

One day when I come into work Carter asks me a question, “What do you think a perfect world would look like?” and it takes me a minute to respond, but when I do I can’t help but slowly add more and more details, creating my own intricate little world. He smiles, “that sounds nice.” We didn’t get much work done today because we were busy talking about this imaginary world. Our shift ends but our conversation doesn’t, I lay on the couch with him as he adds another touch to our creation. And that’s when the thought dawns on me: that I’ve become so attached to him, that I couldn’t bear the thought of not seeing him, and that’s when I realize that this is what love is, that the government won’t be happy. But I don’t move, and I don’t say anything, I just lay there, staring at his blue eyes, listening to him talk. When he talks about this world his eyes have a certain glimmer and his lips curl a little. 

I wake up with the realization I’ve fallen asleep at work again. I see Carter, still asleep on the couch, dusty blonde hair swept over his eyes. I smooth his hair back and turn off the lights before making my way home.

But waiting for me back home is a letter from the government: 

Dear Ms. Ulysses and Mr. Carter, 

We have observed a concerning relationship developing between your two persons. Please refrain from continuing these behaviors. 

Regards, your government.  

Reading the words make me want to cry, in the kind of way that makes me want to curl up and cease to exist. I want to tell Carter. No one else would understand the panic, no one else would know what to do, what to say. But then I realize that Carter is the one person I can’t talk to, because the government would intervene and then the conversation will be forgotten. Because if I talk to Carter I’ll be forced to forget him. And I’d rather he be a wistful memory than a forgotten past. But what if I could talk to Carter? What if we could be something? What if our little world was real? But I know it isn’t and I know creating a thousand “what ifs” wouldn’t make anything better. And I know we live in a rational world, and love is irrational.

I trace the gold font on the leather cover of the book, my heart heavy with regret, and make a decision. No good will come from holding onto this, eventually Carter will come knocking on my door for it back and I don’t want to talk to him. I can’t talk to him. I mail the book back to him knowing he’ll get it within the hour. And I lay on the floor, feeling shattered into a hundred pieces, how did I get to this point? How did I get to the point where the government was threatening me? How did “our government” become “the government”? And I should cry, I want to cry, rather than lay here feeling like I’ll choke on my own my own heart. But I feel numb, but the tears won’t come. 

Thud. It’s a quiet noise, I almost don’t hear it, I probably wouldn’t have heard it if it wasn’t so ghostly silent. I look by the door and see the book has made it back to me, maybe its a gift, something to remember him by, I think and the idea makes me happy in spite of the numbness. I open the book and spot an envelope stapled to the back cover. I smiled, reading the most beautiful letter. And then I’m somehow smiling more because I’m mailing my own letter back. 

I wake up to the soft thud of the book, which has become familiar. Then, even though I know the government is watching us, I read Carter’s newest letter: he complains about his new coworker, he talks about another tiny detail of our world, and he tells me about how it’ll all be okay. 

But it isn’t all okay because one day I open the door and find myself staring at three men in suits, holding slips of paper, arresting me. 

We arrive at our destination. When they open the door I see Carter, already seated. The government already knows and it’s already too late to try and hide so I fling myself into his arms- feeling his warmth run through my limbs, feeling his strong hands clutch my back, feeling so whole, so complete. 

But before I know it I’m staring face to face with the president. A teenage girl brings him a cup of coffee and he takes his time thanking her, complimenting her brewery. I can’t help but wonder how someone who could be so kind to a coffee girl could be so cruel to us. And suddenly I understand: he needs to control us, stop us from loving, because love makes people do irrational things, because love gives people something to fight for. And he takes that away so people don’t care enough to fight, so he can hold onto power. He’s power hungry.“I’m very sorry about this,” he finally says, “I think you know how this goes,” and we do but he tells us anyway, “you get two weeks together, in a dream of sorts, and then you forget about it all.” 

The house is beautiful, a sky blue house behind a picket fence. I sit with Carter on a swing in the breeze, with a plaid blanket over our shoulders. He sips at a mocha, I ask him the question I wanted to ask him so long ago, even though it seems silly now: “why a mocha?” He looks at me and he smiles, “because we live in a world where we forget how to be young and are proud of it, I’d like to hold onto silliness, onto childhood, for as long as I can,” it’s a beautiful and poetic answer. We sit there for a while, swaying in the wind, listening to the gentle hum of birdsong, sipping coffee. “Ulysses?” Carter says, after a long moment I meet his gaze, “Do you think it was worth it?” I don’t need to ask him what he means, and I think if I really think about it I’ll change my mind but I don’t want to, “yeah” I tell him. And I’m not even sure how but his blue eyes are suddenly right in front of me, his warm hands are suddenly behind my neck, his lips are suddenly pressed against mine; I can taste the faint sweetness of chocolate and smile at the thought of his mocha. The birds have gone silent and all I can hear is his breathing, all I can see is his blue eyes which have so much warmth behind them, all I can think is I love you. 

When we reach the last morning Carter and I sit on the swing again, like we have every morning. I rest my head against his shoulder, etching the moment into my memory: the warmth of his shoulder, the slight breeze that rustles his blonde hair, the warmth in his gaze, the feeling in my chest that, in spite of everything, is light as air. 

And then we’re pulled from the moment. We’re ushered into a room with metal walls and rushed into metal chairs. A blinding light shines in my eyes, it's not warm like the sunset, no, it’s cold and piercing. I feel an icy pressure in my arm and look over to see someone dressed in blue scrubs gazing at me sympathetically.

I can feel a fog floating through my mind, attempting to snatch my consciousness. But I don’t want to fall asleep because I know I won’t wake up, not really. Because you are your memories and I can’t seem to remember life without Carter. I’ll forget all this happened anyway, and he’ll forget all this happened anyway, so it doesn’t even matter, so I should just say it. “Carter, I love you,” I tell him. He smiles at me, “I love you too,” And just like that I can finally let go and slip into the haze. 

I sit at a coffee shop, sipping my mocha, finishing the last sentences of my book, sunlight strewn over the pages. At the back of the book I find an envelope stapled to the cover, I fold it open and find at least a dozen love letters. I read them. They’re beautiful. Some have a certain happiness, talking about the lightest topics: annoying coworkers and new books. While others make me want to cry, with insights about life and the weight of the world. But they all have little details about an imaginary world, they all have sweet nothings that seem to mean everything. 

They all make me wish I could’ve been the recipient of them, because the characters are all beautifully and tragically in love.