In the Face of Erasure

I need to forget myself,” Jordan said, their voice barely above a whisper. They sat in the sterile chair, fingers fidgeting with the edges of their sleeve, their eyes staring ahead, unfocused.

The technician, a middle-aged man with tired eyes, looked up from his screen. He had heard variations of this request, but there was something about Jordan’s words—something about the way they hesitated before speaking—that made him pause.

“Personal items go here,” he said, motioning to the tray beside him. “We’ve found that small things—like photographs, old receipts—can trigger memories, emotions. We’ll need to catalog them.”

Jordan nodded without looking at him, their hands trembling slightly as they set down a small photo of their younger self—dressed in a bright blue hoodie, the edges of their hair freshly dyed purple. The photo was a symbol of freedom, of a time when they could be who they were without fear.

The technician’s eyes flickered to the image, then quickly away. It wasn’t his place to judge. His job was to help people forget.

“You’ve consented to the memory reclamation procedure,” he continued. “I should remind you, though—when memories are removed, there can be side effects. You might forget pieces of yourself that are connected to others—like certain places, certain people.”

Jordan’s hand fell limp at their side. They had heard it all before.

“I understand,” they said, their voice flat. “It’s better this way.”

The technician’s fingers hovered over the keyboard. He had done this countless times, but today, there was an unfamiliar weight in the air. This wasn’t just a standard procedure. This wasn’t just about memories—it was about identity.

He glanced at the screen. Jordan’s file was filled with flags: “Gender Fluid,” “Non-binary,” “Resisting Conformity.” And yet, here they were, asking to erase themselves.

Jordan’s breath hitched, and they spoke, this time with a trembling urgency, “I can’t keep hiding. I can’t keep pretending to be what they want me to be. I don’t know how to keep being me, not when the world keeps telling me I’m wrong.”

The technician didn’t know what to say. He had seen many people come and go, but few who had carried so much internal pain.

“I’m sorry,” he said, his voice soft. “I can’t imagine what that must be like.”

Jordan met his gaze then, for the first time. Their eyes were red, heavy with exhaustion. “You don’t need to. But I do. I need to forget what it feels like to be suffocated. To always have to fight for something as basic as love.”

The technician nodded, understanding now. They weren’t just erasing memories. They were erasing the constant battle to be seen, to be loved for who they truly were.

He typed in the first word: “Love.”

The system whirred as it searched Jordan’s neural pathways. He watched as a series of images flashed across the screen: first kisses, late-night phone calls, hands intertwined in secret places. All the little moments of joy that came with being seen, truly seen, for the first time.

But then, there was a shift. He could see the shift in Jordan’s face. Their eyes squeezed shut, a tear slipping from the corner of one eye.

“Stop,” Jordan whispered. “Please. Don’t take it away.”

But it was too late. The system had already begun to delete the memories—those precious moments when they felt love in its purest form, unfiltered and unafraid.

The technician hesitated. He could see the emotional storm brewing in front of him. He was trained to act, to follow the procedure. But something inside him made him pause.

Jordan’s voice cracked. “I just want to forget the weight. The constant weight of rejection. The way they told me I wasn’t enough...”

The technician swallowed hard, his hand trembling as he moved the mouse to stop the process.

“Jordan,” he said gently. “You don’t have to forget. Not really. You can carry those memories with you. Even if the world doesn’t always accept you, they’re still yours. They’re a part of you.”

Jordan’s eyes widened as the system froze. “You’re saying... I don’t have to forget who I am?”

“No,” the technician replied, his voice steady now. “You just have to learn to carry it. To let the world try to break you, but never let it erase you.”

Jordan sat in silence for a long time, the weight of the decision pressing against them. The machine had stopped. The technician hadn’t pressed the delete button.

Slowly, they stood, wiping the tear from their cheek. “I don’t know if I can keep fighting,” Jordan murmured, their voice barely audible. “But... I won’t let them take this from me.”

The technician nodded, a silent acknowledgment of the choice Jordan had made—not to erase, but to endure. To carry their truth with them, even when it felt unbearable.

As Jordan left the room, the technician turned back to the screen. The file remained open, the memories still present, untouched. He turned off the machine and sat back in his chair.

Sometimes, erasing wasn’t the answer. Sometimes, survival was about holding on.