Instructions for Forgetting Someone

Begin with the obvious things.
Delete the photographs — not all at once,
that would be suspicious, even to yourself.
Start with the blurry ones, the duplicates,
the shots where neither of you looks quite right.
Work backward through the timeline
until only the best remain,
then leave those for another day.

Remove their contact from your favorites.
Don't delete it entirely; that's dramatic,
and you'll only search for it later
like a word stuck on your tongue.
Just demote it. Let it sink
into the alphabet where it belongs —
between the dentist and your mother.

Unfollow, but don't block.
Blocking is a wall. You need a window
you choose not to look through,
which is not the same as bricked-up glass.
Mute their stories. Let their posts
dissolve into the algorithm
where they can live forever
without touching you.

Now, the harder work.

Notice what triggers remembrance:
a song, a restaurant, a corner
where you once waited in the rain.
You cannot avoid these things,
but you can dilute them.
Play the song until it's just a song.
Eat at the restaurant with someone new.
Stand on that corner for no reason
until it belongs to no one again.

When their name surfaces in conversation,
practice your unremarkable response.
Not too quick — that's obvious.
Not too slow — that's obvious too.
Aim for the middle distance,
the polite disinterest of weather.
"Oh, them? Yeah, I hope they're well."
Believe it until it's true.

Sleep on the other side of the bed.
This will feel wrong for weeks.
That's the point.
Wrong becomes different becomes normal
becomes the only way you've ever slept.

Finally, the impossible part.

Forgive yourself for still remembering
on a Tuesday afternoon in November,
two years later, for no reason,
while buying groceries or parallel parking
or doing something so ordinary
it should have no room for ghosts.

Understand that forgetting is not a cliff
you fall off and never return to.
It's a tide. In and out.
Some days the beach is dry.
Some days it isn't.
Both are survivable.

Let the past become what it is:
a country you used to live in,
whose language you still half-speak,
whose currency is worthless here.
You can miss it without going back.
You can remember without reopening.

These are the instructions.
They won't work all at once.
They won't work completely.
But they will work enough —
and enough is the whole point
of forgetting someone:
not to erase them,
but to make room
for what comes next.