I Sold My Memory to Pay Rent

1. — “The Memory Exchange”

I didn’t think twice the first time I walked into the Memory Exchange.

They say your first time should mean something. Maybe I should have cried, or clutched the edges of the memory like the edges of an old photograph, refusing to let it go. But I didn’t. I just sat there, numb, holding my hands in my lap like I was at a dentist’s office.

The woman across from me had kind eyes. That’s the part I still remember — how her eyes softened when I told her what I was giving up. "It’s a lovely one," she whispered, gently brushing a stray strand of hair behind her ear. "You’re sure?"

I nodded.

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2. STAKES — “I Needed to Pay Rent”

I needed to pay rent. Seventeen hundred and twenty-eight credits. My job at the distribution hub barely kept me in calories, let alone shelter. Memories were the new currency, and they paid well for the ones laced with feeling. Nostalgia was a commodity. Regret, longing, love — all could be packaged, polished, and sold to the highest bidder for artificial experience.

And mine?

Mine was the first time I fell in love.

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3. THE MEMORY — “She Was Drawing Me”

I remember the sky that day — or I used to. Hazy orange, the way the light hit the pavement like spilled honey. She was sitting outside the cafe, legs crossed, sketchbook in her lap. She didn’t see me at first. I stood there longer than I probably should have, watching the way her pencil moved like it had a life of its own. I remember wondering what she was drawing. It turned out to be me.

That’s what I gave them.

The meeting, the coffee, the nervous laughter. The night walks. The dancing in the kitchen. The way she said my name like it was something sacred. The moment we kissed and everything fell quiet inside me for the first time in years.

They took it all.

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4. LOSS — “When I Got Home, Something Was Missing”

When I left the Exchange, the world looked the same, but something had shifted. I saw a girl sketching on a street corner and felt nothing. I passed the cafe and felt only the smell of burned espresso. When I got home — the new place I could now afford — I stared at the blank wall and tried to remember why it felt so empty.

I couldn’t.

They tell you the process is clean. "No side effects," the ads claim. "A harmless trade."

But no one tells you about the absence. No one warns you how loud silence gets when you lose the only thing that ever made you feel.

I tried to fill the space. I went on walks. I talked to people. I downloaded emotional simulations from cheap vendors who promised "safe and legal feelings" — but they all felt like reheated food. Not bad, not good. Just warm.

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5. REGRET — “I Tried to Find Her”

I tried to find her.

The girl from the memory.

But how do you search for someone you don’t remember? I didn’t have her name. Not anymore. I didn’t even know what she looked like. I tried dating again. Everyone seemed nice, even kind. But I was always scanning their faces, waiting for something inside me to say, "Yes, it’s her."

It never did.

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6. SLIPPERY SLOPE — “I Sold Another One”

Months passed.

The credits ran out.

And so I went back.

I told myself it would only be one more. Just one less important. Maybe a childhood friend, or the time I graduated. Something that wouldn't hurt.

But the woman with the kind eyes was gone. The new attendant was colder. She didn’t ask me if I was sure. She just took the memory, processed it, handed me the receipt.

I don’t even remember what it was anymore.

That’s the thing they never mention: the more you give, the more you lose yourself. Not just the memories, but the meaning. The stitching that holds you together begins to fray. I looked in the mirror the other day and barely recognized my own eyes.

Sometimes I wake up and feel something tugging at the edge of my consciousness — like a word on the tip of my tongue. A name. A laugh. A warm kitchen.

Gone.

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7. REVELATION — “My Memory Was Being Sold”

But here’s the worst part.

I read something the other day. An article in a journal about "emotive simulacra." They take memories, edit them, and redistribute them for mass consumption. And in the image? Her. The girl from my lost moment.

They were using her.

My memory, our story, sliced into scenes and sold in packets to strangers craving secondhand love. And there she was, animated, recreated — smiling at someone else.

I tried to buy it back. I searched everywhere, offered every credit I had. But memories, once sold, are no longer yours. They belong to the system. You don’t get them back.

You become a stranger to your own soul.

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8. WARNING — “Don’t Do What I Did”

If you’re reading this, maybe you’re considering selling one, too. Just a little one. Just to cover rent, or a hospital bill, or something you swear you’ll never forget even after it’s gone.

Don’t.

They can take everything. And one day, you’ll sit in your apartment, surrounded by things you paid for with your past, and you won’t know who you are. You’ll stare out the window, and wonder why your chest aches when the sky turns orange.

You won’t remember the honey light. Or the pencil. Or the kiss.

And worst of all?

You won’t even know what you’re missing.