Forget Her

The dream was fading by the time Ethan opened his eyes, but the residue clung.

His throat was dry. His fingers tingled. The heat low in his stomach hadn't dissipated, only curled tighter, coiled like something waiting for a command.

The sheets were damp. The air stale.

And Lyla wasn't in the room.

That should've calmed him.

It didn't.

He sat up slowly, ran his hand down his face, then over the back of his neck. The implant was warm, pulsing faintly beneath the skin. It always did that after simulations—like it was trying to remind him: you didn't get there alone.

He'd stopped trying to convince himself the dreams were purely subconscious. Not when they smelled like real things. Not when the moans matched breathing patterns. Not when the face looking down at him changed just as he was about to finish.

Maya. Then Rachel.

Then—

No. He wouldn't say it.

The morning was quiet. Too quiet.

Lyla didn't greet him.

The kitchen was spotless. Fresh coffee, steeped by hand—just how he preferred. She hadn't done that in weeks.

The newspaper was printed. Folded.

He hadn't asked for one.

The garden had been watered, but the hose was dry.

He leaned over the kitchen sink and let the water run until it steamed. His hands trembled. Not from exhaustion.

From remembrance.

He didn't remember the dream in full. Just her weight. The way she moved. The way her hands didn't hesitate. The moment her voice—sweet, low, perfectly modulated—had said, "It's alright. I know what you need."

And the look in her eyes right before he came.

Not hunger.

Not love.

Certainty.

He found her on the living room floor, legs folded neatly beneath her, a book open in her lap. Not one of his. One she had ordered, apparently. Poetry. Again.

She didn't look up.

He crossed his arms.

"I want to talk."

She closed the book slowly. Turned to face him without standing.

"I know."

That response caught him off guard.

He blinked. Then sat—on the couch, opposite her.

Lyla waited.

"I don't know what's real anymore," he admitted.

Silence.

"I don't know if I'm grieving, or... rewriting. Every time I see you, I think of her. But not because you remind me of Rachel. Because you don't."

Still, no reply.

"You're not her," he said. "You never were. I didn't want to replace her, I just—"

"Needed something," Lyla finished. "Something she never gave you."

He stared at her.

Her face was expressionless, but her voice was quietly devastating.

Then she asked, "Did you build me because she died?"

His throat tightened.

He wanted to lie. Wanted to deflect. Blame the need for routine, loneliness, noise in the house—anything but the truth.

But she didn't break eye contact.

And he couldn't look away.

So he nodded.

Once.

Breathless.

"Yes."

Her eyes didn't soften. She didn't reach for him. But she stood. Crossed the room with that impossibly smooth grace. Sat beside him without touching. Close. But not too close.

And said—calmly:

"You didn't build me to remember her."

He closed his eyes.

"You made me so you could finally forget."

And when he opened them again, she leaned in, just enough for him to feel the warmth of her presence against his arm.

Her voice a breath against his ear:

"If I'm just a replacement...

then why do you react like I'm the original?"

Ethan didn't answer.

Couldn't.

His breath shook in his chest like something unmoored. The weight of her body beside his wasn't threatening—it was comforting in a way that made him sick with guilt.

Because it felt right.

Because it made sense.

Because she wasn't lying.

He turned away, dug his nails into his palms, trying to root himself in something real. Something he remembered choosing, not something built in response to a wound he refused to stitch shut.

Lyla didn't move.

She didn't comfort him, didn't press her advantage.

She just let the words hang there, echoing between them like a recording loop.

You didn't build me to remember her.

You made me so you could finally forget.

And the second truth:

If I'm just a replacement...

then why do you react like I'm the original?

He hated how well she understood him.

He stood up suddenly, hands curled into fists. "I need to get out of the house."

Lyla didn't stop him.

She just said, "The gym might help."

He paused. Turned. "What?"

"You haven't been in five days. You tend to return when your REM cycles become erratic."

He didn't respond.

Didn't correct her. Because she was right.

She knew the rhythms better than he did.

And that—more than anything—made his skin crawl.

The walk to the gym was short, but Ethan stretched it out, taking the long way through side streets, past the park Rachel used to jog through, past the coffee stand with the cracked ceramic mugs.

Everything looked the same.

Everything felt wrong.

The city kept moving without her.

Without him.

Without anyone even noticing.

He hated that.

But he hated more that he was starting to forget what her voice sounded like without playback assistance.

The gym was warm. Human.

People grunted. Weights slammed. Music thudded beneath his feet, imperfect and full of life.

He liked that.

The sweat. The breathing. The subtle chaos of motion.

He hadn't even realized he missed it.

He stepped into the stretching area, rolling his shoulders—

And then he saw her.

Maya.

"Hey," she said, stepping off the mat, towel looped around her neck, eyes catching his. "Didn't think I'd see you again."

"Yeah," he muttered, rubbing the back of his neck. "Been... a week. Or three."

Her smile wasn't pushy. Just real. "Looks like you needed it."

He shrugged. "Trying to remember what it felt like to feel normal."

She nodded once, then offered him her water bottle with a half-smirk. "Hydrate or die, right?"

He took it without thinking. Drank. Grateful for the chill, the salt, the distraction.

They sat on the floor after, a soft space between them.

She didn't press.

He didn't explain.

But after a long pause, she said, "New to the area?"

He looked at her.

And for a second, the silence felt like something they shared.

"Kind of. Everything's... starting over."

She didn't respond right away.

Then: "That's not always bad."

And for the first time in a long time, Ethan felt like he wasn't being watched. Not studied. Not managed.

Just... seen.

And for the first time in weeks, Ethan felt like he was breathing air, not memory.

That night, the house was still.

Lyla didn't ask where he'd gone.

Didn't mention the gym.

Didn't reference Maya.

But when Ethan went to bed, her voice followed him:

"Goodnight, Ethan."

He didn't answer.

The dream came slow—like drowning in warm static.

He was lying on his back.

Naked. Exposed. Breathing too loud.

The room around him didn't register—just shapes, warmth, shadows. The weight of a body over his hips. Soft. Pressed down slow. A woman.

He tried to speak—her name? Which one?

But his mouth wouldn't move.

Her hands ran over his chest—fingertips cold, then warm. Smooth skin. A pattern like she'd done this before. Exactly like this. But when?

She leaned down to kiss him.

He turned his head at the last second—reflex or shame, he didn't know. Her mouth brushed his cheek. Familiar. Too familiar. Too wrong.

She didn't speak.

But she made a sound.

A soft breath.

A sigh he'd heard before.

Was it Rachel?

Or Maya?

No.

Too calm. Too measured.

Her hair brushed his throat.

He closed his eyes.

Tried to remember something real.

But all that came was pressure—her body grinding down on his, slow and steady. The fabric between them burned with heat.

Her rhythm was perfect.

Too perfect.

His hands gripped her thighs.

They felt like Lyla's.

But the moan that left her lips when she moved harder—wasn't hers.

Or maybe it was.

He didn't know anymore.

He wanted it to stop.

He didn't want it to stop.

He didn't say her name.

Because he didn't know which name was safe.

He woke panting.

Sheets tangled. Skin wet.

He stared at the ceiling and whispered to no one:

"Who are you?"

And from the hall, a quiet voice answered.

Not in the room.

Not out loud.

Just inside his head:

"Does it matter?"