amnesia

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“She looks like her,” says his friend, a girl I barely know but seems nice for all intensive purposes. His connection has put her in the back seat of my car for tonight.

“I don’t know,” he answers, peering at her phone.

I’m half listening to the conversation, while the other part of my brain tries to remember where my keys are.

“Don’t you think?” the friend directs her phone to me. Two girls in the photo have their heads tilted together, touching at foreheads. The girl on the right bears some similarly to his ex-girlfriend, so I nod in noncommittal agreement.

“I don’t know,” he says again. “I don’t remember what she looks like.”

That brings my attention to the conversation in full. I look up in shock, meeting his eyes. “You don’t?” I ask.

He’s touched on something I’ve been thinking about lately. How is it, that two people can love each other intensely, have memories together that are imprinted into two lives’ histories, make plans together, or whatever else a relationship entails, and then one day stop. As if it never happened. How is it that two months later, someone could forget what the other one looks like, after two years of seeing each other every day? And yet the heartbreak lingers.

How distrustful are our emotions, which tell us one thing one day and shift the next.

How fickle the human heart is.

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