"Everyone Forgot She Existed—Except Me"

I woke up alone again. But that wasn’t what scared me.

What scared me was that I couldn’t find any trace of her—not in the apartment, not in my phone, not even in the parts of my memory we were supposed to share. It was like the world had decided she never existed.

Her name was Mira.

We met three years ago at a bookstore. She wore a mustard-yellow sweater and laughed at all the wrong moments—like during horror movies and my awkward attempts at flirting. She made everything feel lighter, warmer, like I'd been underwater until she walked into my life.

We moved in together six months later. I proposed to her in our kitchen on a rainy Tuesday, while she was eating toast. I didn’t even have a ring. I just said, “I can’t imagine waking up without you. Let’s make this forever.” She smiled and said yes before I could finish.

And then, she was gone.

No goodbye. No warning. Just gone.

But that wasn’t the strangest part.

The strangest part was when I tried to find her—and no one knew who I was talking about.

Her clothes? Vanished.

Photos of us? Nowhere on my phone.

Even her number just rang and rang until it disconnected.

I went to her workplace—the art supply store two blocks down. The girl at the counter looked at me like I was lost. “We’ve never had a Mira here,” she said, checking the employee list. “Are you sure it was this store?”

I drove two hours to her mom’s house—a place I’d visited multiple times. A woman opened the door, and I recognized her immediately. “Mrs. Lanson,” I said, voice shaking, “I’m looking for Mira.”

She blinked. “I don’t know anyone named Mira. Sorry.”

She closed the door.

I sat on the curb in disbelief.

Everything—our life, our history—was erased.

I thought maybe I was losing my mind.

But when I got home, I looked at my left hand.

The ring was still there.

It was simple gold with a tiny sapphire—her birthstone. She picked it out herself.

I stared at it for hours.

That night, I sat by the window, watching the streetlights flicker. I whispered her name.

“Mira…”

And then I heard it.

Soft. Close.

“You remember me.”

I spun around. No one was there. But I felt her—her scent, her warmth. Lavender and vanilla. My heart raced.

I walked into the bedroom.

The mirror above our dresser was fogged, as if someone had just taken a hot shower. But the bathroom was dry.

And on the glass, written in the fog, were four words:

“Don’t forget me again.”

I reached out. The letters vanished under my fingertips.

That night, I didn’t sleep.

I started writing everything down—how we met, our first kiss in the rain, the way she painted on the back of receipts when inspiration struck. I wrote about the jokes we shared, the arguments, the way she used to hum when she thought I wasn’t listening.

I filled a whole notebook.

The next day, I searched everything—hospitals, records, social media.

There was nothing. No birth certificate. No driver’s license. No obituary.

I kept looking, hoping maybe someone remembered her. But no one did.

I don’t know if she was taken, if I crossed into another version of reality, or if love itself leaves behind an echo strong enough to haunt the living.

But I remember.

And I wear her ring.

Some nights, I feel her beside me. Not like a ghost—but like a presence trying to stay alive. I pour her tea. I talk to her.

People say I’m crazy.

Maybe I am.

But love doesn’t just vanish.

Not real love.

She may be gone from the world, but not from me. As long as I remember her, she still exists—somewhere.