Five Years, A Forgotten Name

He remembered my childhood pet' s name, our first meeting, and my obscure tea brand, but for five years, Braylon couldn't remember I was allergic to shrimp. It glistened in my pasta, a cruel reminder of how little of me registered in his mind, especially as he laughed with a familiar blonde across the room. My stomach churned, not from the allergy, but from a deeper sickness. That night, at a sprawling rooftop party, Braylon handed Dallas Huff, a young blonde, a delicate bracelet-a replica of her grandmother's, a story he'd told me a hundred times. "Dallas, this reminded me of you," he said, his voice soft, intimate. She beamed, leaning into him, her eyes sparkling, then flickered to me with a triumphant, venomous gleam. When Dallas purred about a gallery opening, Braylon chuckled, "Eliza will be coming with us. Our anniversary dinner is that night." He turned to me, a forced smile pleading for me to play along. But I was done. "It's over, Braylon," I whispered, "And my name is Eliza." He looked genuinely lost, unable to recall my actual name, while Dallas and his friends mocked his forgetfulness. His eyes, wide and confused, searched my face. "Eliza? What are you talking about? Your name is... it's always been..." He trailed off, genuinely lost. A bitter taste filled my mouth. He remembered every trivial detail of Dallas' s life, but my actual name? It was a blank. Later, he left me stranded on a dark, winding road after I refused to apologize to Dallas. My phone was dead, and I stumbled, breaking my ankle. As I lay there, alone and injured, I sobbed, "Why did I stay? Why did I waste five years on him?" Braylon, meanwhile, drove away, a gnawing unease simmering beneath his anger, only to return to a horrifying scene.

Chapters

Chapter 2

The cool night air hit me as I stepped onto the street, but it did little to cool the fire burning in my chest. Braylon and Dallas were right behind me, their footsteps echoing on the pavement. When we reached the car, I moved to open the passenger door, a robotic motion. But Dallas was faster.

She darted forward, a flash of blonde, and slipped into the front seat. The impact of her hip against mine sent a jolt of pain up my side. I stumbled, catching myself on the doorframe.

"Oops! So sorry, Eliza!" she chirped, not sounding sorry at all. Her eyes met mine, a triumphant glint in their depths. "Looks like I got here first, didn't I?"

I said nothing, just stood there, waiting. Waiting for Braylon to do something, anything, to acknowledge the blatant disrespect. He didn't.

"Dallas, you sit there. Eliza, you can get in the back," Braylon said, his voice clipped. "Dallas gets carsick easily."

My stomach clenched. Carsick? I got carsick too. For years, I' d carried a small emergency kit in my purse: ginger candies, a cool compress, motion sickness pills. Not because Braylon remembered, but because he never did. He' d forget my allergy, my name, my discomfort. He' d forget everything that truly mattered. I realized with a fresh wave of despair that my purse, with its vital contents, was still at the party.

"I get carsick too," I stated, my voice surprisingly steady.

Braylon sighed, an impatient sound. "Eliza, please. Don't start. It's late, everyone's tired. Just get in." He rubbed his temples. "Don't be dramatic."

Dramatic. That was his word for my pain. My frustration. My existence. I looked at him, truly looked at him, and saw a stranger. There was no point in arguing. I pulled out my phone, hoping to call a ride-share, but the screen remained stubbornly dark. Dead battery. Just my luck.

The street was deserted, shadows stretching long and menacing in the dim glow of distant streetlights. The air was colder now, biting through my thin dress. Fear, cold and sharp, pricked at me. I imagined the worst. Anything could happen out here. But I wouldn' t give him the satisfaction of seeing me afraid.

"Get in, Eliza!" Braylon snapped, his patience worn thin.

I bit back a retort, my jaw aching. With a heavy sigh that felt like it came from the depths of my soul, I slid into the back seat.

Dallas, meanwhile, was chattering away in the front, her voice bright and irritatingly cheerful. "Oh, Braylon, remember that time we snuck out of your parents' mansion and went stargazing? We got caught climbing back in, and your dad was furious!" Her laughter tinkled in the enclosed space, amplified by the car's interior, each sound a hammer blow to my temples.

Braylon chuckled, a warm, genuine sound I hadn't heard directed at me all night. "How could I forget? You were terrified, but you pretended to be so brave."

Their conversation wove a tapestry of shared memories, a private world I was locked out of. My head began to throb, my stomach churning. The familiar nausea of carsickness, amplified by stress and the relentless sound of Dallas's voice, rose swiftly. I pressed my forehead against the cool glass, trying to breathe, trying to hold it back.

"And Braylon," Dallas continued, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper, "remember that promise you made me when we were kids? That you'd always take care of me?"

That was it. The breaking point. My control snapped.

"Can you two please just be quiet?" I yelled, my voice raw and strained, cutting through their intimate bubble. My head throbbed, my stomach rebelled.

Dallas twisted in her seat, her eyes wide, feigning shock. "Oh, Braylon, she's so mean! I was just trying to cheer you up. You've seemed so stressed lately, and I just wanted to remind you of happier times." She clutched his arm, her eyes filling with fake tears.

Braylon's face was a mask of stone, his jaw tight. He looked at me in the rearview mirror, his eyes cold and distant. He said nothing, but his silence was louder than any shout. It was a judgment.

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