Rain continued pouring around the station long after neither of us spoke again.
I stood there staring at Meera while her last words repeated endlessly inside my head.
Someone had tried to erase her from my life.
No matter how impossible it sounded, every piece was beginning to fit together too perfectly to ignore.
The missing memories.
My father's behavior.
The incomplete hospital records.
The panic attacks near stations.
And the strangest part—
Not once had I forgotten ordinary things after the accident.
I remembered college.
Work.
Friends.
Daily life.
Only Meera had disappeared.
Only her.
The realization made me feel sick.
I dragged a hand across my wet face slowly.
"Tell me everything."
Meera looked terrified by the request.
"Arjun…"
"No more half-truths."
My voice came out quieter this time, exhausted more than angry.
"I can't keep living inside fragments."
For several seconds, she only watched me silently while rainwater dripped from the edge of her dark hair.
Then finally—
She nodded weakly.
"There was a treatment."
The words made my chest tighten immediately.
"What kind of treatment?"
"Your father arranged it after the accident."
A cold sensation crawled down my spine.
Meera looked away before continuing.
"The doctors said severe trauma sometimes traps people inside painful memories." Her voice trembled slightly. "Your father believed forgetting me would help you recover."
I stared at her in disbelief.
"So he erased parts of my memory?"
"It wasn't supposed to work completely," she whispered. "At least… that's what they said."
The station suddenly felt too small.
Too loud.
Too suffocating.
I took a step backward, trying to process what she was telling me.
"You're saying someone actually manipulated my memories?"
Meera didn't answer immediately.
That silence alone confirmed enough.
A bitter laugh escaped me.
"That's insane."
"I know."
"No, you don't." My breathing became uneven again. "Do you have any idea what it feels like realizing your own mind doesn't belong entirely to you anymore?"
The pain in her eyes deepened instantly.
And immediately, guilt hit me.
Because none of this had only happened to me.
She had lived through it too.
Alone.
For years.
I looked away toward the empty railway tracks stretching into darkness.
"How long did you know?"
Meera hesitated.
"Since the hospital."
I closed my eyes briefly.
Of course she did.
She had probably watched me forget her in real time.
The thought broke something inside me.
"What happened when you tried talking to me afterward?"
Her lips parted slightly, but no words came at first.
Then quietly—
"You looked at me like I was a stranger."
The sentence hurt more than I expected.
"I kept thinking maybe your memories would come back naturally," she continued softly. "So I waited."
Thunder rolled above the city again.
"I texted you for months."
Another flash hit suddenly.
Unread messages.
A number saved without a name.
My own hand blocking the contact eventually.
Pain exploded behind my eyes.
"I called too," Meera whispered. "But every conversation only made your panic attacks worse."
I pressed my hand harder against the railing beside me.
Somewhere deep inside my mind, buried emotions were beginning to push upward violently now.
Loss.
Fear.
Love.
Grief.
It all felt tangled together beyond recognition.
"You should hate me," I said quietly.
Meera looked shocked immediately.
"What?"
"I forgot you. I forgot our child." My throat tightened painfully. "I moved on with my life while you carried all of this alone."
Her expression softened instantly.
"Arjun…"
"No, seriously." I laughed weakly without humor. "I don't even remember falling in love with you."
The words sounded cruel the moment they left my mouth.
Not because they were intentional.
Because they were true.
Meera lowered her eyes.
For the first time since meeting her, I saw genuine heartbreak on her face.
Small.
Quiet.
The kind of pain someone learns to hide after carrying it too long.
And suddenly I hated myself for saying it.
"I didn't mean—"
"I know," she interrupted softly.
Silence settled between us again.
But this silence felt heavier than before.
Because now the truth existed openly between us.
Not dreams.
Not mystery.
A real shared past.
One I had lost.
One she never escaped.
After a while, Meera sat slowly on the cold metal bench nearby.
Exhaustion covered her face now.
Not dramatic sadness.
Just tiredness.
The kind that comes from grieving something for too many years.
Without thinking much, I sat beside her.
Close enough to feel her warmth slightly through the cold air.
Neither of us spoke for a while.
Trains came and went in the distance while station announcements echoed faintly overhead.
Then quietly, Meera asked—
"Do you want to know something embarrassing?"
I glanced at her.
"What?"
A faint smile touched her lips sadly.
"After you forgot me… I still celebrated your birthday every year."
My chest tightened painfully again.
"I know that sounds pathetic."
"It doesn't."
She looked down at her hands.
"I kept thinking maybe one day you'd remember naturally." She laughed softly beneath her breath. "So I never really let go."
I stared at her silently.
At the loneliness hidden beneath her calmness.
At the years she had spent carrying memories for both of us.
And suddenly—
Another fragment surfaced quietly.
Not painful this time.
Warm.
Meera asleep against my shoulder during a late train ride.
My jacket wrapped around her.
Her half-asleep voice mumbling—
"Don't disappear on me again."
The memory faded gently instead of breaking apart.
I inhaled sharply.
Meera noticed immediately.
"What did you remember?"
I looked at her for several seconds before answering.
"You used to say that a lot."
Her eyes widened slightly.
"Say what?"
I swallowed slowly.
"'Don't disappear on me again.'"
The moment the words left my mouth, tears filled her eyes instantly.
Not because the memory was huge.
But because it was real.
Small.
Ordinary.
The kind of memory people only create after loving someone for a long time.
And for the first time since this all began—
I saw hope appear in her expression again.