Chapter 3

"What can I get for you?"

"A cinnamon roll and a hot latte, please."

I sat at the second booth by the window. This was my spot. The one I had occupied every Wednesday morning for seventy-three weeks. The vinyl seat had a tiny tear on the side, and the table wobbled if you leaned on it too hard.

Wednesday, 8:15 AM.

Usually, at this exact time, Asher would walk through the door, sit at the empty table across from me, and order a coffee and a bagel.

I waited for two hours. He never showed up.

My latte went cold. A thin skin formed over the milk.

I pulled out my phone and dialed his number.

Serena picked up.

"Chloe?"

"Where is he?"

"We’re eating at home. I made him breakfast."

"He always comes to this diner on Wednesdays."

"He used to. But I wanted to change things up. Eating the same thing every week isn't healthy. Oh, and by the way, Chloe, he reset today. You know how it is. He doesn't remember a thing. Calling him right now won't do you any good."

He doesn't remember a thing.

Not the fake memories Serena spent seven days building in his head. Not that she was his "wife," not her face, and not that lullaby.

She had to start all over again today.

"Where are you taking him today?"

"There's a new cafe on the South Side. I think he’ll like it."

"I’ve been there. He hates that place. The tables are too close together. He gets anxious. He needs a window seat."

The line went dead silent for a few seconds.

"Thanks for the tip, Chloe. I'll make sure we get a window seat."

I hung up.

I paid for my untouched food and walked down to the South Side. Standing across the street, I looked through the glass window of the new cafe.

Asher was sitting by the window. Serena was sitting opposite him.

She had listened to me. A window seat.

She was laughing, tracing something on the table with her finger. Asher tilted his head, listening intently, nodding occasionally. That was his signature look when he was intrigued. The textbook reaction for Day One.

I knew this routine inside out. Because I was the one who spent six months figuring it out through trial and error.

Day 1: Bumping into him. Talking about the cat. Keep it casual, don't be too eager.

Day 2: Do not contact him. Give him space to process.

Day 3: If he shows up, let him speak first.

Day 4: He will initiate contact.

Day 5: Take a step closer.

Day 6: He will say those words.

Day 7: Watch him fall asleep. Wait.

Serena sat there, executing my playbook, step by step.

I turned and walked away.

At 8:00 PM, I went back to his apartment building. I didn't go upstairs. I just stood on the sidewalk below.

The lights on the third floor were on. The curtains were half-drawn.

I could see Serena’s shadow moving in the living room, holding Mochi.

Mochi was meowing again. High-pitched, anxious cries. The cat was uncomfortable. She was still holding him wrong.

Her silhouette sat on the couch. Next to her, another shadow sat down.

Asher.

He was probably staring at his phone, or just spacing out. On the first day of his reset, he always stared blankly into space. His brain was desperately trying to fill the void of his missing memories.

And then, that familiar melody drifted down from the third-floor window.

It was shaky. Up on the third note, down on the seventh.

Through the night air, Serena’s voice sounded so much like mine that I could barely tell the difference.

I stood under the streetlamp, listening for three minutes. Then, I walked back to my lonely room.

Day Two. Day Three. Day Four.

On Saturday, a coworker forwarded me a screenshot of Serena’s private Instagram story.

In the photo, Asher was sitting on the balcony chair. Mochi was curled up on his lap. Asher was smiling.

The caption read: *“He reached out to me first today. ☀️”*

I stared at that photo for a long time.

I was the one who planted the ivy on that balcony. I was the one who bought that vintage chair off Craigslist. I was the one who named the cat sleeping on his knees.

Everything in that photo belonged to me.

Except for the smile on his face. That belonged to her now.

My coworker texted me: *“Is your roommate dating your fiancé now? What’s going on?”*

I didn't know how to answer.

After a long pause, I typed out: *“We broke up.”*

I closed the chat and opened Asher’s contact card. I knew his number better than my own social security number.

Our last call was from ten days ago, the night before I left for Oregon.

That night, he had whispered, "Hurry back. I'll be waiting for you."

He didn't remember.

But my phone did.

I took a screenshot of that call log and saved it into a folder.

The folder was named: *“Things He Said.”*

There were already seventy-three recordings in there.

Now, there was a screenshot.

On Friday afternoon, my coworker sent me another screenshot of Serena’s Instagram.

It was a photo of Asher in the kitchen, wearing an apron, holding a plate of food.

The caption read: *“First time someone’s cooked dinner for me. ❤️”*

It was his signature lasagna. He used to make it for me every single week. Seventy-three times, he had asked me, "Is it good?" And when I said yes, his eyes would crinkle up with pure joy.

In the comments, Serena replied to another coworker: *“He told me I'm the only one for him.”*

I flipped my phone over, screen down on the desk.

"Is it good?"

His voice suddenly echoed in my mind. It was so loud, so clear, that for a split second, I thought he was standing right next to me.

But the room was empty.

My phone vibrated again. A text from Serena.

*“Chloe, he made lasagna tonight. You told me he likes extra brown sugar in the sauce, right? I added it. He said it was perfect.”*

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