THE GAPS

Alicia POV

The photo sat on my nightstand, mocking me.

Two hours of staring, and I still had nothing. Just a blank space where something important should be.

It felt like missing a step in the dark.  

It was 2:47 AM and I have classes in five hours.

I picked up the photo again.

Twelve-year-old me looked genuinely happy. The boy's hands on mine, comfortable. We'd known each other well.

So where was he in my memories?

I tried thinking backward. Middle school was there—awkward haircuts, braces, that mortifying science fair. Eleven, ten, nine, all there.

Then twelve hit and there was just... fog. Six months of my life reduced to fragments. I remembered my dad being sad, quiet, and different somehow.

But the specifics? Gone.

I grabbed my phone and pulled up Dad's contact. He was in Singapore for work, which meant it was mid-afternoon there.

He answered on the third ring. "Alicia? Is everything okay?"

"Define okay."

"That's never a good start." He moved, probably stepping away from a meeting. "What's wrong?"

"What happened when I was twelve?"

Silence stretched long enough that I checked to see if the call had dropped.

"Dad?"

"Why are you asking?" His voice had changed. Careful now. 

"Because I can't remember half the year."

"You were sick. High fever. Spent a week in the hospital." He said it smoothly, like he’d practiced. "The doctors warned us about memory gaps. Normal with that kind of illness."

"What kind, exactly?"

"Does it matter? You recovered."

"It matters if there's six months missing."

"Alicia…" The tone that meant conversation over. "—it was a long time ago. You're fine now. That's what matters."

"But…"

"I have to get back. We'll talk when I'm home next week. Love you."

He hung up.

I stared at my phone. My dad never dodged questions. He was the most straightforward person I knew.

Which meant he was hiding something.

Morning came too soon and brought Maren with it. 

She appeared at my dorm room door holding two coffees and a bagel.

"You didn't sleep," she said, pushing into the room.

"Good morning to you too."

"Don't deflect. Your left eye twitches when you're exhausted." She handed me coffee. "Spill."

I debated lying, but Maren had an unsettling ability to detect bullshit.

"Found something weird yesterday." I pulled out the photo.

"Okay, creepy. Who's the scribbled kid?"

"No idea. That's the problem."

"But it's definitely you. That's the sweater your grandma made."

"Yeah. So this is real. But I have zero memory of it."

Maren sat on my bed. "Have you asked your dad?"

"He stonewalled me. Said I was sick that year, had a fever."

"And?"

"It feels different. Like there's a hole where something should be." I ran my finger over the scribbled face. "The note on the back says 'don't try to remember.' Who writes that?"

"Someone who really doesn't want you to." She paused. "Do you think it's connected to Mystery Boy?"

I hadn't made that connection. But now...

"D.H. Desmond Hayes. He's on the hockey team."

"And he looked at you like you'd killed his dog."

"Yeah."

"So maybe he knows something?"

"Or maybe I'm connecting random dots because I didn't sleep."

Maren stood, grabbed my jacket. "Only one way to find out. Come on."

"That's a terrible idea."

"Got a better one?"

We found Hayes in the library.

He sat alone at a corner table, headphones in, laptop open.Textbooks stacked around him like a fortress.

"Go talk to him," Maren whispered.

"Absolutely not."

"You're the one who wanted answers."

"In theory. Not practice."

"Alicia."

"Fine. But if this goes badly, I'm blaming you."

He didn't notice me at first. His eyes were locked on his laptop screen, jaw tight.

I cleared my throat.

He looked up. Saw me. And immediately went pale.

"Hi. Can we talk?"

"No." Already gathering his things. "Sorry. Busy."

"Two minutes."

"Don't have two minutes."

He stood, shoving books into his bag. A notebook fell. I grabbed it.

"Please. I just need to ask something."

"Give that back."

"Do you know me? From before?"

His hand froze. "What?"

"Before Lakeside. Did we know each other?"

Something flashed across his face. Pain, maybe. Or fear.

"No. We've never met."

"You're lying."

"I'm not."

"Then why do you look at me like that?"

"Like what?"

"Like I'm going to disappear if you blink."

His jaw clenched. "You're imagining things."

"Am I?" I pulled out the photo. "Because I found this and I think the scribbled-out kid is you."

All color drained from his face. "Where did you get that?"

"Does it matter?"

"Yes." He stepped closer, hands shaking. "Who gave you that?"

"Nobody. I found it."

"Where?"

"The equipment room."

"Stay away from me, Alicia. I'm serious."

He knew my name. I'd never told him my first name.

"How do you…"

But he was already walking away.

I started to follow, but Maren caught my arm.

"Let him go. He's about to have a panic attack."

She was right. Hayes had that look—tight chest, shallow breathing, eyes too wide.

I watched him disappear.

"Well," Maren said. "That went great."

"He knows something."

"Obviously. The question is whether you want to keep pushing."

I looked at the photo still in my hand. At my twelve-year-old smile.

"Yeah. I do."

The rest of the day crawled by. Classes blurred. I took notes without processing them, my brain stuck on Hayes and his panic and the way he'd said my name.

Like he'd said it a thousand times before.

By practice, I'd convinced myself to leave it alone.

Then I walked into the rink and saw him skating alone, moving through drills with absolute control.

I should've stayed on the bench.

Instead, I walked to the edge of the ice.

"Hayes."

He stopped, but didn't turn.

"I'm sorry. For ambushing you earlier."

"It's fine."

"It's not. I just… there's six months of my life I can't remember. And I think you were in them. I need to know why I forgot."

He turned. His eyes looked haunted.

"Some things are better left forgotten."

"That's not your decision."

"No. But it's the truth." He skated closer, stopped at the boards. "Whatever you think you remember, whatever you think we were—it's gone. Let it stay gone."

"Why?"

"Because remembering won't change anything. It'll just hurt."

"You don't know that."

"Yes. I do."

The weight in his voice made my chest ache.

"Were we friends?"

He closed his eyes. "Yeah. We were friends."

"What happened?"

"Life. Bad timing. Things that don't matter anymore." He opened his eyes, and they were bright with something I couldn't name. "I'm not that person anymore, Alicia. And you're not who you were. We're strangers now. That's how it has to be."

He skated away.

I stood there gripping the boards, feeling like I'd lost something I couldn't name.

My phone buzzed. Unknown number.

I almost deleted it without looking.

But curiosity won.

The message was just a photo.

The same photo. Except this version wasn't scribbled out.

The boy's face was clear.

It was Hayes. Younger, softer, but unmistakably him.

And we weren't just friends.

His hands on mine. My head on his chest. We were looking at each other instead of the camera, and the expression on both our faces was unmistakable.

We'd been in love.

A second text dropped.

You were his whole world. Then they made you forget. And it almost killed him.

My hands went numb.

Who were "they"? What did they make me forget?

And why did looking at this photo feel like remembering how to breathe?