Good Morning, Stranger

The alarm blared.
Aya woke with a start, the shrill sound drilling into her ears. Her gaze darted to the ceiling—white, unfamiliar, distant. She blinked, hoping for a flood of memories. None came. Only the silence of a mind wiped clean. Again.

The scent of fresh linen and faint lavender drifted in the air. Pale curtains framed the morning sun, casting soft golden light across the room. Dust motes danced in the sunbeams, slow and unbothered. Unlike her.

Her chest tightened. She knew this feeling too well—the void, the panic, the not knowing. A tremble in her fingers reminded her of the routine she didn’t remember creating. She turned her head. The notebook lay there, waiting, on the nightstand.

It always starts with the notebook.

Its cover was worn—soft leather edges frayed from constant use. Aya reached for it with hesitant fingers. Her name was written on the first page in neat, looping letters:

"My name is Aya. I forget everything when I wake up. But today will be okay. Read the next page."

A familiar ache throbbed in her chest. Aya. That was her. The handwriting felt familiar—should feel familiar—but her mind remained blank.

I forget everything. The words echoed in her head. They didn’t feel real, but the emptiness in her memory told her they were.

Her fingers trembled as she turned the page.

A photograph was taped there. A girl—her\—stood beside a boy with dark hair and a wide smile. He looked at her as though they shared a secret. Beneath the photo, written in the same neat handwriting:

"His name is Riku. Trust him."

A knock startled her. She snapped the notebook shut.

"Aya? Breakfast is ready."

The voice was warm, familiar—but how could it be? She didn’t remember him. She didn’t remember anything.

Slowly, cautiously, she rose. Her legs felt unsteady, like they belonged to someone else. She padded to the door, fingers hovering over the handle before she gathered the courage to turn it.

There he was. The boy from the photo. Riku. His smile was soft, reassuring. His dark eyes crinkled at the edges when he looked at her—not with surprise, not with curiosity. With familiarity. As if he’d been expecting her.

"Good morning," he said. "Let’s make today another good day, okay?"

Aya opened her mouth to respond but hesitated. Another good day? Did he know she—

"Come on. Pancakes are waiting," Riku added, stepping back to let her through.

Her stomach rumbled at the mention of food. Hesitantly, she followed him down a narrow hallway. The walls were lined with framed photographs—pictures of her and Riku. In one, they were laughing at the beach. In another, they shared ice cream under cherry blossoms. She stopped and stared at them.

Who are you? she wanted to ask. And who am I?

"We take those every weekend," Riku said, noticing her gaze. "You always say you like having memories, even if you don’t remember them."

Aya turned away quickly. His voice was too kind, too gentle. How could he be so calm when she felt like a stranger in her own skin?

The kitchen smelled of syrup and butter. A plate of pancakes sat on the table, steam curling from them. Aya slid into the chair, her eyes never leaving Riku as he poured tea into two cups.

"You’re probably wondering a lot of things," he said, handing her a cup. "I—"

"Why don’t I remember anything?" The words escaped before she could stop them. Her voice cracked.

Riku’s hand stilled. For a moment, something flickered in his eyes—sadness? Regret? But it was gone as quickly as it came.

"It’s okay," he said. "We’ve talked about this. Every morning starts the same. But it’s going to be okay. We’ll make today a good day."

"That’s what you said earlier," Aya murmured, glancing at the notebook she’d brought with her. She flipped it open again, rereading the message.

Trust him.

But why? her mind whispered.

Riku reached across the table, his hand warm over hers. "Aya, you don’t have to remember everything. You just have to trust me."

Aya stared at his hand. Warm. Steady. Familiar. But still, the void inside her yawned wide. How could she trust a boy she didn’t remember? How could she trust a version of herself who left her only two instructions?

Her fingers tightened around the notebook. She would read it all—every page. The answers had to be there. But as she skimmed through, a chill ran down her spine.

A page was missing. Torn. The jagged edge left behind whispered a warning:

Something is wrong.

And for the first time that morning, Aya wondered—

What if trusting him was the biggest mistake of all?

To be continued...