Forget Me Not Novels & Stories

I fell silent; The sadness suddenly gripped me firmly that my heart was dying when I realized why my boss didn't remember me. “No! Don't make him remember me. He must forget me forever,” I said in tears. “What? But, why?” he asked, curious. “Didn't you realize why he remembered you and everything, but he didn't remember me at all?” I asked him. He furrowed his brows in thought as he continued to stare into my eyes. “It was because he wanted to forget his worst memories. His heart was suffering so much because of me that he couldn't take it anymore.”

Liam bowed his head, speaking in a voice so low it was barely audible: “I get it, I get it all…” How can you not understand that there is no longer any possibility between them? It's just that forgetting someone is really not easy. If you've ever truly loved someone, you can't say forgetting is forgetting. “Liam, you are so lucky to have a wife who loves you like that, and a lovely daughter like this. If you open your heart, you will realize, you are really living a very happy life." Grainne sighed and continued: "Promise me, forget me, try starting your new life, okay? Just watch it. Like for me." Liam was silent for a long moment, then solemnly nodded.

Not now, not ever, maybe ever is a strong word I might forgive him but not yet. I might be able to forgive and forget everything else, but the betrayal of someone you thought was your friend—that's unforgettable. Even if you forgive them, those memories will always find a way to haunt you. "You remember when we used to go for picnics on afternoons like this?" he persisted. "I'll take a little nap, wake me when we get to town" I announced, pushing the button on the seat so it reclined. I turned to my side and closed my eyes. He knew I wasn't really sleeping, even if I were sleepy.

Not loud. But impossible to ignore. My breathing became uneven. “What does that mean?” The figure tilted its head again. Slowly. Almost curiously. “You were not meant to remember this quickly.” Fear crawled sharply down my spine. This quickly. Not: > you shouldn’t remember. But: > not this quickly. Like forgetting had been expected. Planned. My grip tightened around my phone. Ethan kept saying my name, but his voice sounded far away now. The figure took another step closer.

"Subject must not remember." I whispered the words to myself, "But I remember now. And I'm not going to let them take that away from me."

“I’m not done with you.” I couldn’t speak. Couldn’t think. Couldn’t move. I’d said I wanted to forget him. And now I couldn’t remember my own name.

Out of sight, out of mind I suppose. Clyde levelled his gaze at me, narrowing his eyes as he frowned. He argued, “No, you didn't.” “Who are you to tell me that I didn't forget?” I sighed, eyeing him. “It's not like you're in my head, Clyde. If I tell you that I forgot, then that's exactly what happened; I forgot. End of story.”

"We studied together in high school, Hana. Me and you, I mean. You just don't remember me, but your sister, surprisingly, did." Hana covered her mouth, shocked and embarrassed. "For heaven's sake- I'm so sorry, my memory is horrible when it comes to real people." "Only important people and the ones who harmed her, stay in her mind, forever." "Taeyang! Don't be so rude with the doctor." He nodded, holding his smile.

"Happy to see me? I'm your coworker now!" "It's so good to have you here." I smiled and pulled her in for a hug, feeling glad to have a friend by my side at work. "By the way, how much do you remember about the past?" she curiously asked after we let go. I frowned and tried to recall, but a lot of memories were missing. Seeing my troubled expression, she gently explained, "You took a memory loss pill and forgot many things. If you can't remember, don't force it."

We’d toast to our anniversary, and then I’d tell him everything about my father, the slush fund and about the fact that his mysterious benefactor had been sitting across from him at breakfast every morning for the past three years. Sighing, I checked my phone. 8:02 p.m. Barry was late. I’d expected him to be running on “Barry time” — a few minutes behind, because he always liked to “make an entrance” — but this wasn’t a casual dinner at home. This was our night. I tried calling him again. The phone rang until it clicked to voicemail. “Barry, it’s me.” I began. “The dinner has started, please call me back.” I lowered my