FORGET ME
“Such an empath you are,” I said, leaning back as I watched her wipe her tears for what felt like the hundredth time, her shoulders still trembling slightly after finishing that sad movie on my laptop.
A tragic ending.
The hero dies.
The heroine is left behind—broken, crying, alone.
She sat there like the world had actually ended.
She sniffed again, another soft sob escaping her as I silently passed her another tissue.
She took it without even looking at me.
“Why did he die?” she asked, her voice breaking, as if I had personally written the script and decided to ruin her day.
“Because it’s a sad movie,” I said plainly. “That’s how it works.”
She shook her head immediately, tears pooling again.
“No… they could have saved him… they should have…”
She sniffed loudly, glaring at the screen like it betrayed her.
“He promised her he would stay…” she whispered.
“They always promise,” I muttered.
She turned to me.
“What?”
“Nothing,” I said quickly, looking away.
She wiped her tears again, quieter this time.
“But she’s alone now…” she said softly.
I exhaled slowly, running a hand through my hair.
“She’ll live,” I said. “People don’t stop living just because someone leaves.”
She leaned toward me without warning, pressing her face against my shoulder and wiping her nose like my shirt was a perfectly acceptable tissue.
“Eww—move away,” I said instantly, pushing her back with a look of pure disgust.
She pulled away, glaring at me.
“You have no heart.”
“I love movies like this,” I said casually, shrugging as I glanced at the paused screen. “When one of them dies… or both of them die… those are actually worth watching.”
She hit my shoulder.
“Such a psycho you are,” she said, offended beyond repair.
“I don’t cry over fictional people,” I shot back.
“They are not fictional,” she argued immediately. “They feel real.”
“They’re literally actors,” I said.
She groaned, throwing the tissue at me.
“You’re emotionless.”
“And you’re dramatic,” I replied.
She folded her arms, still pouting, her eyes slightly red, her nose pink from crying.
I looked at her for a second.
Then looked away quickly.
“…Still,” I muttered, picking up another tissue and tossing it toward her, “use this next time. Not my shirt.”
“Please don’t die before me… I don’t want to end up like that girl,” she said, pointing at the screen, her voice still soft from crying.
I let out a mocking laugh.
“As if you love me…” I leaned back, crossing my arms.
“You’re the one who’ll celebrate my death,” I added casually.
She sniffed once, then nodded like she had already planned it.
“Yes. I’ll even hang a board outside saying— Mr. Justice Saviour went to hell to fight with the demons there.”
I huffed out a short laugh, shaking my head.
“Perfect. Finally doing something useful.”
She glared at me again, but this time her eyes weren’t teary anymore, just annoyed.
“I’ll even give a speech,” she continued dramatically. “Ladies and gentlemen, today we lost a very irritating human being —”
“Make sure you cry properly. Otherwise people won’t believe it.”
She paused.
Then looked at me.
“…I won’t cry.”
I nodded. “Of course you won’t.”
“…Maybe a little,” she muttered, looking away.
Something in my chest tightened unexpectedly.
I scoffed to cover it up.
“Don’t worry,” I said lightly. “I’m not dying anytime soon.”
“But I think I’ll die before you,” she said, leaning back against the wall beside me, her voice so casual it didn’t match the weight of the words at all.
We were both sitting on the floor, the laptop resting on her lap, the last few scenes of the movie still playing—but I wasn’t watching anymore.
My eyes were on her.
“Why are you saying that?” I asked, my voice quieter now, something uneasy settling in my chest.
Why did she keep talking about dying like it was… normal?
She shrugged slightly, her gaze still fixed on the screen.
“Having a lot of problems inside this tiny body of mine,” she said lightly. “So I won’t live longer like usual human beings.”
My jaw tightened.
“My life is ticking every day… I’m counting my days, mister.”
“Do you have cancer or something?” I asked, looking straight at her.
“Nahh,” she said casually.
I let out a breath of relief.
“But… some breathing issues, heart problems, low immune power, eating disorder, PTSD, PCOD—”
“What the fuck” I cut her off, my voice sharper than I intended.
She blinked at me, unfazed, like she had just listed grocery items.
I stared at her.
“You faint,” I said. “You don’t eat properly. You have…” I gestured vaguely, unable to repeat everything she said. “And you’re sitting here joking about dying?”
She didn’t answer immediately.
Just looked at me quietly.
“If I start taking it seriously,” she said softly, “I’ll stop living.”
My chest tightened again.
I clenched my jaw.
The movie ended.
The screen went black.
But neither of us moved.
I looked away, exhaling slowly.
“…From tomorrow,” I said finally, my voice firm again, “you’re eating properly. No skipping. And we’ll get your checkups done.”
She groaned instantly. “Here we go again.”
“I’m serious.”
“You are not rich enough to pay my medical bills, poor asshole,” she said, looking away like she had just stated a universal fact.
I looked away too, my mind already doing calculations.
Salary.
Expenses.
Savings.
“…I earn enough for that,” I muttered under my breath.
She turned to me instantly, eyebrows wiggling in that annoying way.
“So desperate to stay with me, aren’t you?”
My breath hitched.
I looked away immediately.
“Don’t flatter yourself,” I said quickly. “I’m a medical servant. My sole career is to save people from illness —”
“Ugh, stop your nonsense,” she cut me off, rolling her eyes dramatically.
I clicked my tongue.
“How many years do you think you’ll live?” I asked, even though the question tasted bitter the moment it left my mouth.
“Maybe five or six years,” she said casually, like she was guessing the weather, already reaching for the snacks beside her and munching on them.
My heart stilled.
Five or six years.
I looked away immediately, my jaw tightening as I bit the inside of my cheek, trying to compress whatever was rising inside me.
Was she joking?
How could someone say that so easily?
“These kinds of problems weren’t mentioned in your health report,” I said, forcing my voice to stay steady as I looked at her.
“Those important reports are with my brother,” she replied simply.
I nodded once.
Silence stretched for a moment.
“Aren’t you… sad?” I asked finally, my voice quieter now. “That you might die within a few years?”
She didn’t even hesitate.
“I just hate being born as a human,” she said, shrugging. “Especially as a girl in this world… so I’m kinda happy I don’t have to live in this shit place till my hair turns grey.”
“I don’t have anyone I’d feel bad leaving behind,” she added, still looking at the screen.
Something twisted sharply in my stomach.
I turned my face away, my gaze fixed somewhere else because I couldn’t look at her anymore.
“Your brother will suffer after you die,” I said, my voice coming out more unsteady than I wanted.
She didn’t even look at me.
“After I die, he’ll be free from all the worries about my health and life,” she said, scrolling through the laptop like this was just another casual topic. “He can focus on himself and Zara more… a burden of me will be removed.”
Something inside me snapped.
“For a brother, their sister is never a burden,” I said, my voice firmer now, anger slipping through as I looked away, my hands clenching into fists.
“You don’t know our life,” she muttered.
“I’ve seen it,” she said. “The stress. The pressure. The constant worry. I’m the reason for it.”
I exhaled sharply, running a hand through my hair.
“You both don’t have parents… and if you leave him too…” I said, my voice quieter now, “I don’t think he’ll ever be happy.”
She shrugged slightly.
“I’m not saying he’ll be happy,” she said, opening a packet of chips like we weren’t talking about something this heavy. “He’ll cry. He’ll feel sad. He’ll mourn for me.”
“But for how many days?” she continued. “A week? A month? Then he’ll forget me….”
My jaw tightened.
She kept going, her tone still so… detached.
“After we die, people don’t even remember our names. They’ll just say, ‘did the body come from the hospital… take it there… move it here…’ That’s all we become.”
I turned my head slowly to look at her.
She popped another chip into her mouth.
“So yeah… after death, no one seriously gives a fuck about me”
“Massive headlines will go on television saying— biggest business tycoon Viyana Sinclair died due to health issues—” she started.
“Shut the fuck up,” I muttered.
Something inside me snapped—hard, sudden, ugly.
Before I could even think, I snatched the packet of chips from her hands and stuffed a handful into my mouth, just to annoy her.
“Hey—!” she tried to grab it back.
I didn’t let her.
I crumpled the empty packet and tossed it at her before standing up abruptly.
The room suddenly felt too small.
Too suffocating.
My chest was heavy—unbearably so.
I walked out without another word.
Each step faster than the last, like I needed distance… from her, from her words, from whatever this heavy feeling was.
I ran a hand through my hair, exhaling sharply as I stepped into the empty hall, trying to steady my breathing.
I clenched my jaw.
“Fuck,” I muttered under my breath, pressing my palm against the wall.
I just realized how restless—and foolishly reactive—I was being for no clear reason.
The idea of her dying… it didn’t sit right with me.
Not at all.
Maybe it was because she was living with me.
Maybe because she had somehow slipped into my routine.
Maybe… because she had become a friend.
I exhaled slowly, forcing my racing heartbeat to settle, dragging my thoughts back under control before they spiraled any further.
This was stupid.
I stood there for a moment longer, then turned and walked back to the room.
She was still sitting in the same place, laptop on her lap, staring at the screen.
I just walked in, sat down beside her on the floor, and yanked the laptop from her hands.
She blinked, startled.
I looked at the screen only to find a list of various K-dramas.
“These are those CEO–employee trope dramas… wanna watch one?” she asked, grinning like she had already decided for both of us.
“No thanks,” I said, forcing a fake smile before looking back at the screen anyway.
“Mr. Pookie,” she called.
I closed my eyes in irritation, biting my lip as a stupid, traitorous smile still found its way onto my face.
I hummed in response.
“Will you forget me after I die?” she asked.
My eyes opened immediately.
I turned to her.
She was already looking at me.
How can I forget her?
Her question didn’t even make sense.
“I won’t forget,” I said.
Her eyes lit up.
“How can I forget someone who forced me into a marriage —”
“Uggghhh stopppp,” she whined, pushing me away.
I let out a small chuckle, letting her shove me as I leaned back again, my gaze returning to the screen.
But this time I didn’t really see anything.
Because the answer I gave was only half of it.
The rest stayed stuck somewhere in my chest.