THE DAY

The Day I Erased My Memory on Purpose

They said it wasn’t legal.

Not yet.

Not in this country.

But I didn’t care. When your thoughts scream louder than the world, when every memory is a blade, ethics don’t matter—relief does.

I found the clinic online. It didn’t advertise as a memory removal service. It offered “Neurological Wellness Recalibration.” Cold name. Cold office. White walls. No clocks. Just the hum of a machine that promised to "unburden the mind."

I sat across from a man in a gray lab coat. He didn’t smile.

“You understand the risks?”

I nodded.

“You understand we don’t remove specific memories—only emotional links.”

Still, I signed the waiver.

The procedure was painless.

No wires. No pills. Just a dim room and a headset that buzzed like a bee behind my eyes.

“Focus on what you want to forget,” the voice instructed.

So I did.

Her face.

Her voice.

The moment she said, “I don’t love you anymore.”

I breathed her in one last time. Then I let go.

I woke up three hours later.

Lighter.

Emptier.

The grief? Gone.

But so was something else.

I looked at my phone—no passcode memory. I opened my fridge—no idea what I liked to eat. My cat meowed and I jumped. I didn’t know I owned a cat.

Over the next few days, gaps widened. I couldn't remember birthdays. Favorite songs. Whether I liked coffee or not. I walked into rooms and forgot why I existed in them.

I had cut too deep.

The clinic wouldn't answer my calls. I returned to the address—it was abandoned. As if it had never been there.

Then the dreams began.

I kept seeing her.

But differently.

She wasn’t just a girlfriend. She was a scientist. A colleague. The one who created the memory-erasing algorithm.

And I was the test subject.

Now, I don’t know what’s real.

Sometimes I wake up in a white room, strapped to a chair, with a headset humming behind my eyes. Other times I’m on my couch with a cat I don’t remember adopting.

And today, I found a note tucked in a book titled Cognitive Echoes and Emotional Imprinting.

“If you’re reading this, you’ve done it again. Stop trying to forget. You lose more of yourself each time.”

It’s in my handwriting.

I think I’m the one who built the machine.

I think I’ve been erasing the truth over and over.

Of course. Here's an additional 200 words to expand your story:

---

The Day I Erased My Memory on Purpose

(Continuation — additional 200 words)

They warned me about the side effects.

“You might lose more than just the pain,” the technician said, adjusting the wires near my temple.

I nodded anyway. I had already lost myself—what else was left?

The machine hummed softly. Like a lullaby made of static.

I closed my eyes and focused on the one thing I wanted gone: her smile. The way it cracked into my mind in the quiet. The way it lived in every song, every scent, every second I tried to move on.

They said I could choose. Just that memory. Just that feeling.

But memory isn’t clean. It’s not a file you drag to the trash.

It’s a root system, tangled deep inside you. And when you pull one, others come loose.

When I woke up, the weight was gone.

So was the color of her eyes.

The name of the street where we met.

Even the way my own laugh used to sound when I was around her.

I got what I asked for.

Peace, maybe. But at the price of pieces I can’t get back.

And now, I wonder:

Did I forget her… or did I forget who I was when I loved her?

Would you like me to polish this into a complete story with title card, Vocal metadata, and thumbnail prompt?

And the worst part?

I don’t even know what I was trying to forget anymore.