He Forgot Me, I Deleted Him

The night before our wedding, Desmond Arlington got jumped out of nowhere.

By the time I made it to the hospital, he stared at me like I was a total stranger.

Doctor said it was memory loss—some brain rattle from the hit. Temporary, supposedly.

So I went full nostalgia tour, dragging him back to all our spots, hoping something would click.

Then one day at the hospital, I caught him running his mouth with his buddy.

"Rhea's trying so hard. Doesn't that do anything for you?"

"Do what? I'm over it. Same spots, same girl. The new ones are way more fun."

"So why marry her? Just call it off and live your life."

He snapped, "Shut up. I LOVE Rhea. I'd never bail on the wedding. I'm just... pushing it back a bit."

I looked down at the test results—zero issues. Everything normal.

And that's when it hit me: you can't help a faker.

Desmond Arlington was still yapping with his buddy in the hospital room.

Their voices dropped, but whatever they were whispering cracked them up hard enough to make me feel sick.

He sounded hyped. "Get ready! Tonight's gonna be insane!"

"Relax, Desmond. I'll find you some fun, easy girls to really light it up. But aren't you worried Rhea's gonna bounce if you keep playing like this?"

His laugh hit like a slap. "Bounce? Nah. She's obsessed. She would wait a decade and still come running."

Footsteps echoed out the door.

I wiped my tears fast and faked like I'd just walked in.

His friend stepped out, flashing a grin. "Rhea, hey. It sucks that Desmond's still messed up—dude barely remembers us. But don't stress, I'm cooking something up tonight to help jog his memory."

I gave a tight smile.

God, I was an idiot.

I already knew exactly what he meant by "cooking something up."

Back then, I used to be in the dark, smiling and thanking him like he was doing me a favor.

"Thanks. I appreciate it."

"Come on, Rhea, don't be all formal. He's inside with a headache. Go hang while I get things ready for tonight."

I walked in.

Desmond scowled, voice dripping with irritation. "You again? Didn't I say I don't know you?

"Look, I get it—I'm hot, girls throw themselves at me. But you? Thinking we were gonna get married? Get real.

"I played along, hit all your little memory spots, and guess what? Still nothing. Why are you so stuck on me?"

I bit down hard on my lip. I already knew the truth, but hearing it still cut deep.

He used to go toe-to-toe with his family for me. Now, with the wedding right there? He flipped.

I handed him the report. "Just your results. You're good. Discharge-ready."

His eyes lit up. "For real?"

The only reason he was still here was because I pushed for it—wanted him monitored in case the "amnesia" turned into something real.

But now? I knew the deal. He was never sick.