Chapter 2:

The Missing Page

The Girl Who Forgets

The page was gone.

Aya stared at the torn edge in the notebook, her breath caught in her throat. The rough tear mocked her—what had been there? Why would she rip it out? Or had someone else done it?

Her gaze flickered to Riku, who hummed softly in the kitchen, washing dishes as if the world were normal. She looked at the photo taped above the missing page again. His smiling face. The words:

"His name is Riku. Trust him."

But trust didn’t come easy when you woke up every day forgetting everything.

"Riku?" Aya called, voice steadier than she felt. "Did you know there’s a page missing from my notebook?"

The clatter of dishes stopped. Riku turned slowly, wiping his hands on a towel. His expression didn’t change—still calm, still gentle—but something unreadable flashed in his eyes.

"Is it?" he said. "Maybe you tore it out yourself. You sometimes write things you don’t want to remember."

Aya frowned. Did that sound like her? Would she tear out her own memories? But the page wasn’t cleanly removed—it was ripped, hurried. Not the action of someone trying to forget something quietly. No. It felt like someone wanted her not to see it.

"What was on it?" she asked, watching his face closely.

Riku smiled, but it didn’t reach his eyes. "Does it matter? You always say the past doesn’t change what today can be."

Aya’s stomach churned. Was that true? She couldn’t remember saying it. All she had were his words—and the empty space in her notebook.

The afternoon sun hung high as Aya sat alone in her room, the notebook spread open on her lap. She had reread every page multiple times. Each line of handwriting felt familiar but distant, like echoes from a dream she could barely grasp.

Instructions for daily routines. Little notes of reassurance. Memories recorded for her future self.

But none explained why she forgot. None mentioned how Riku fit into her life beyond that photograph. And none explained the missing page.

Her eyes drifted to the torn edge again. The jaggedness bothered her. The tear wasn’t straight—it was hurried. Almost desperate.

Someone didn’t want me to read what was there.

A soft knock interrupted her thoughts.

"Aya? Can we take a walk? The weather’s nice. It might help clear your mind."

Riku’s voice again. Always calm. Always patient. Always knowing more than he said.

Aya closed the notebook, glancing once more at the photograph.

Trust him.

The words pressed into her mind like a whisper. But trust came hard when your own mind kept secrets from you.

The park was quiet. Children’s laughter echoed faintly from a distant playground, but here, in the shade of tall oaks, everything felt still. The gravel path crunched beneath their feet. Riku walked beside her, hands in his pockets, his gaze turned upward toward the shifting leaves.

Aya watched him from the corner of her eye. He seemed so at ease. Like this was normal. Like she was normal.

But the weight in her chest told her otherwise.

"Do we come here often?" she asked.

Riku glanced at her and smiled. "Almost every day. You say the fresh air helps."

You say. You say. Always what she supposedly said. But how could she be sure? She didn’t remember any of it.

They reached a bench overlooking a small pond. Aya sat, folding her hands in her lap. Riku remained standing, watching the water ripple in the breeze.

"Tell me something real," Aya said suddenly. "Something I’ve never written in my notebook."

Riku turned slowly. His smile faltered for the first time. "What do you mean?"

"Something you know about me. Something I wouldn’t write down. Something only someone who really knows me would know."

Silence stretched between them. Aya held his gaze, searching for cracks in his calm facade.

Finally, Riku sighed and sat beside her.

"You hate thunderstorms," he said. "Not because you’re scared of the noise. You say it’s because of the quiet after. Like the world is holding its breath, waiting for something worse."

Aya blinked. That wasn’t in the notebook. She flipped through the pages in her mind—no mention of thunderstorms.

"How do you know that?" she asked, voice barely above a whisper.

Riku looked away. "Because you told me. Before."

Before.

Before what?

Aya’s pulse quickened. The word hung there, heavy with meaning. Riku wouldn’t look at her. His fingers curled tightly into his palms.

"Before what, Riku?" she pressed. "Before I started forgetting? What happened to me?"

He stood abruptly. "It’s getting late. We should head back."

Deflecting. Again.

Aya stood too. "No. I want answers. Now."

Riku turned, and for the first time, his calm expression cracked. There was fear in his eyes.

"Aya, please. Not here. Not now."

"Then when?" Her voice trembled. "I wake up every day with no memories. I don’t know who I am. I don’t know who you are! And there’s a page missing from my notebook. What was on it, Riku? What aren’t you telling me?"

Riku stepped back. His mouth opened, then closed. He looked as if he were fighting some inner battle.

Then a voice echoed from behind them:

"Because if she remembers, everything falls apart."

Aya spun around.

A girl stood there.

No older than Aya. Her hair was silver-white, shimmering in the fading sunlight. But it was her eyes that made Aya freeze—eyes as red as blood.

The girl smiled, a strange, knowing smile.

"Hello, Aya. It’s been a while."

Aya stumbled back. The air seemed to thicken around them.

"Who… who are you?"

The girl tilted her head. "Don’t you remember?"

Aya’s heart thundered in her chest. The missing page. The torn edge. The warnings in her mind.