The air in Elara's apartment buzzed with a strange energy, as if the very walls held their breath. She sat cross-legged on the floor, the memory-rewriting pen resting on a velvet cloth in front of her. It hadn't glowed since the last incident since the magic surged and nearly rewrote more than she intended. But tonight, something felt different.
A storm whispered outside her window, lightning tracing thin scars across the night sky. The pen pulsed once soft, blue light leaking from the nib like breath.
Elara reached for it, her fingers trembling. "What are you trying to show me?"
She hadn't written in the journal in days. Since Rowan came back into her life, reality felt fragile, like lace stretched over fire. But the pull was back, strong and undeniable. It felt like the pen had its own will now.
She opened her journal, flipping to a blank page. But instead of writing, the pen moved on its own.
Her breath caught.
A single word scrawled in messy, frantic script:
Remember.
The ink shimmered. Then more words followed, the pen jerking as if possessed:
She sat by the lake, laughing. You kissed her under the willow. You said forever. You both meant it.
Tears welled in Elara's eyes. Those weren't her memories not anymore. But they felt like hers. They were hers. Erased but not gone.
She turned the page.
Another message appeared:
You can't undo love.
Elara shut the journal quickly and shoved it under her bed.
A knock startled her.
She rushed to the door, heart thudding.
Rowan stood there, soaked from the rain.
"Hi," she said softly, brushing wet strands from her forehead.
Elara blinked. "What—what are you doing here?"
"I don't know," Rowan admitted. "I was walking, and I just… ended up here."
Of course you did, Elara thought. The magic was pulling at both of them now.
She stepped aside. "Come in before you freeze."
Rowan hesitated only a second before stepping in. The storm howled outside as the door shut.
For a moment, neither spoke.
Elara went to the kitchen, fetched a towel, and handed it over.
Rowan dried her face, then murmured, "I've been having dreams. Of places I've never been. Feelings I shouldn't have. And every time I wake up… I miss you."
Elara's hand tightened on the edge of the counter. "You don't even know me."
"I know," Rowan whispered. "And it makes no sense. But it feels real. All of it. You. Us."
Elara turned away, unable to look at her.
"I'm sorry," Rowan said, taking a step forward. "I didn't mean to show up like this. It's just… you're the only person who makes the confusion stop, even for a little while."
The journal pulsed again under the bed.
Elara could almost hear it whispering.
Tell her.
But she couldn't. Not yet.
Instead, she gestured to the couch. "You can stay until the rain dies down."
Rowan smiled gently. "Thank you."
They sat side by side, a thin silence stretched between them.
"Do you believe in fate?" Rowan asked suddenly.
Elara looked at her. "I believe in choices."
"But what if some people are meant to find each other no matter what?" Rowan's eyes held a storm of their own. "What if no matter how hard someone tries to erase something, it keeps finding its way back?"
Elara's heart beat faster.
"You talk like you've lost something," she said.
Rowan's voice cracked. "Maybe I did."
Elara looked away, biting her lip. The temptation to confess everything burned at the back of her throat.
But then Rowan leaned forward, her voice low and fragile. "Do you think we've met before?"
Elara hesitated.
"Yes," she said finally. "I think… maybe in another life."
Or this one, she thought. The one I stole from you.
Rowan smiled faintly, the kind of smile that curled at the corners like old pages.
Outside, the rain softened. But inside, a storm still raged.
When Rowan finally left, Elara closed the door slowly, resting her head against it.
The pen had written again.
She returned to the journal, flipping it open.
This time, the page read:
Magic cannot erase what the heart chooses to keep.
Elara closed the book.
She knew now the magic wasn't erasing to protect her.
It was testing her.
And soon, she'd have to choose between the comfort of forgetting and the chaos of remembering.