Part 1Tomorrow I Will Forget Him

Alex walked in as I finished my diary entry: He wants pork chops. Remember to buy some tomorrow. At the door, he knelt to place slippers at his lab assistant Vivian's feet. They nodded at me, passing by to discuss data I couldn't follow. Feeling like a stranger in my own home, I retreated to the kitchen, slicing fruit. When I returned, Vivian was flipping through my journal. "Isla, I had no idea you were such a devoted housewife. You actually kept a daily journal just for Alex." Mock pity dripped from her tone as she ripped it in half. "Let me help you find your independence."

Panic seized me. I lunged, but Alex shoved between us, batting my hands away. "What is wrong with you? It is just a stupid notebook!" He scoffed. "Vivian is right. Why waste time on useless garbage?" Vivian giggled. "It says here you actually sobbed and begged a doctor when she got sick." Alex's face flushed crimson. "Why record every private detail? Scribbling nonsense all day, no wonder you haven't found a job!" Terrified she'd dig up more, he snatched the remaining half, tore it to shreds, and tossed it in the trash.

I watched him usher her out, tears streaming. He had no idea. Without that journal, by tomorrow, I would completely forget who he was.

* * *

I do not know when the illness began. At first, it was just a random morning. I woke up, looked at Alex heating up a mug of milk, and asked in confusion, "Alex, aren't we going to that popular brunch spot we booked weeks ago? Why are you making breakfast?"

Alex paused and glanced at me, amusement dancing in his eyes. "Isla, are you still half-asleep? We went to that bistro yesterday. You complained that the eggs were overcooked and swore you would never go back."

It was only when he saw the sheer blankness in my eyes that panic set in. He wrapped a coat around my shoulders and dragged me straight to the emergency room.

When the doctor asked questions and realized my entire memory of the previous day was completely gone, Alex lost his mind. Terrified that I was dying of some incurable disease, he grabbed the doctor's hand, tears spilling over. "Please, doctor, you have to save her. I will give my own life if I have to!"

But after a battery of scans and blood tests, the hospital found absolutely nothing. They eventually chalked it up to stress, calling it a case of temporary, psychogenic amnesia.

Alex was terrified. For a week, he refused to leave my side, taking a leave of absence from his university lab just to monitor me. It was only after seven incident-free days that I finally managed to coax him back to his research.

But the peace didn't last. Shortly after he returned to school, the strange fog rolled back into my brain. This time, a whole week of my life was completely erased.

I could not bring myself to tell him. Instead, I went back to the clinic alone. Again, the tests came up clear. Dr. Bennett was baffled, only able to prescribe some mild sedatives and advise regular checkups.

Back at the apartment, I stared at the front door, paralyzed. I knew Alex. If he found out I was getting worse, he would drop his thesis and spend every waking hour hovering over me.

But I could not let my broken mind derail his dreams. I could not let my fading memories ruin his future. To protect him and save myself, I started keeping a journal. Starting from the day we met, I meticulously transcribed every detail of our life together, anchoring my soul to those pages.

But my condition only accelerated. At first, the gaps were small and random. Then, the blackouts became more frequent, swallowing larger chunks of my past.

Eventually, I woke up one morning to find my mind frozen at eighteen, before I had ever met Alex. It was only through that battered journal that I was able to piece myself back together.

Job hunting became impossible. I claimed I was freelancing, hiding in the safety of our apartment, caught in an endless loop of forgetting and relearning my own life.

I tried to reason with myself. Our fight was just a misunderstanding. Alex didn't know about my disease, so he thought I was just acting crazy. Once I told him the truth, he would understand why the journal mattered, and we would make up.

I ran out of the bedroom, catching him at the front door. He was holding their coats, murmuring gentle reassurances to Vivian. Seeing them about to leave, I called out, "Wait! Alex, please, I need to tell you something. I kept that journal because... because I am sick."