She Never Remembers Faces

She Never Remembers Faces

Everyone in the city knew Lena Moreau.

Lena did not know everyone in the city.

That was the problem.

She drank the way some people scrolled—endlessly, compulsively, without noticing how much time had passed. Tequila on Tuesdays. Vodka on Thursdays. Whatever came in a sweating plastic cup on Fridays. She loved the blur. The way faces softened at the edges. The way awkward silences dissolved into noise.

By twenty-six, Lena had mastered the art of waking up without context.

New bruises. New phone numbers. New selfies with people she couldn’t name.

But she was never surprised when someone recognized her.

“Lena! From Mercury Lounge, right?” “Oh my god, we did shots together!” “You don’t remember me?”

She’d smile, tilt her head, squint playfully.

“Of course I do,” she’d lie.

It became a ritual. A running joke. The girl who never remembered.

Until remembering became important.

The first time she saw him, she thought he was just another one.

Outside a bar, under flickering neon. Dark hoodie. Hands in pockets. Watching.

When he stepped forward, he smiled like they shared a secret.

“Hey.”

She blinked at him, slightly buzzed but not gone yet.

There was something about his face—familiar enough to be plausible.

“Do I know you?” she asked lightly, almost teasing.

His smile widened.

“You don’t remember my name again.”

Again.

She laughed automatically. “I’m terrible with names.”

“You were pretty drunk,” he said gently. “It’s fine.”

It always was.

He walked her to her Uber like it was routine.

She assumed that meant safe.

The second time was at a house party.

Music too loud. Bodies pressed close. Sweat and citrus vodka.

She felt a hand at her lower back.

“You’re pacing yourself tonight.”

She turned.

Him.

That same steady gaze.

“Oh. Hi,” she said.

He leaned closer. “You said you were going to try.”

Try what?

She frowned slightly. “Have we…?”

He chuckled. “You told me everything last weekend.”

A small stone dropped in her stomach.

He listed things casually.

That she hated gin. That she once cried in a bathroom because she felt replaceable. That she sometimes pretended not to remember people because it was easier than admitting she blacked out.

Each detail precise.

“How do you know that?” she asked.

“You told me.”

He said it softly, like reassurance.

Not accusation.

That’s what made it worse.

After that, he appeared everywhere.

Not hovering.

Not obvious.

Just present.

Across the street. At the end of the bar. Outside a taco truck at 1:47 a.m.

Always with that same quiet patience.

“You forgot you promised to call.” “You left before I woke up.” “You do this a lot.”

She began to feel like she was failing at something she didn’t know she’d agreed to.

One afternoon she saw him in full daylight.

No neon. No music. No alcohol.

He was standing outside her apartment building.

Waiting.

Her stomach dropped hard enough to hurt.

“You don’t live here,” she said.

He tilted his head. “You showed me where you live.”

“No, I didn’t.”

“You were drunk,” he replied simply.

That word again.

Drunk.

A built-in excuse. A weapon she’d handed the world herself.

“How do you know where I live?” she asked.

“You trust me.”

She stared at him.

“Do I know you?”

The words weren’t playful this time.

They were flat.

Serious.

For the first time, his smile thinned.

“You’re doing it again.”

“Doing what?”

“Pretending you don’t remember.”

Something cold slid into her chest.

Because what if she wasn’t pretending?

What if she’d given him something—attention, access, vulnerability—and erased it?

He didn’t need her to remember.

He just needed her to doubt herself.

She stopped going out for a week.

But paranoia is a fragile sobriety.

On Friday, her friend Maya dragged her to a new club across town.

“One drink,” Lena said.

She meant it.

She did not keep that promise.

The blur returned like muscle memory.

Warm. Easy. Familiar.

Then—

“I was wondering when you’d come back out.”

His voice.

Right behind her.

Ice flooded her bloodstream.

She turned slowly.

He looked pleased.

“I missed you,” he said.

Maya appeared beside her. “Who’s this?”

Before Lena could speak, he answered smoothly.

“I’m her boyfriend.”

The word detonated.

Maya frowned. “Since when?”

He gave a small, wounded smile. “It’s complicated.”

Lena’s pulse hammered.

“That’s not true.”

He didn’t argue.

He stepped closer, lowering his voice.

“You don’t remember the weekend at my place? You cried in my car. You said you didn’t feel safe anywhere else.”

Her breath hitched.

Car.

Had she been in his car?

She couldn’t remember every Uber.

He saw it—the flicker of doubt.

And he leaned into it.

“You forget everything,” he whispered. “You forget us.”

Us.

She felt herself tipping—not from alcohol, but from uncertainty.

This was the trick.

He didn’t need proof.

He had her gaps.

“Show me,” she said suddenly.

He blinked.

“Show me a picture of us.”

A pause.

“You’re making a scene.”

“Show me.”

Maya crossed her arms. “Yeah. Show her.”

He reached into his pocket slowly.

Too slowly.

When his hand came back out, it wasn’t a phone.

It was a set of car keys.

He clicked them once.

A car outside beeped.

Her spine went cold.

“I think you just need to lie down,” he said gently. “You’re overwhelmed.”

He reached for her wrist.

And something snapped clear.

He had no photos. No messages. No evidence.

Just her self-doubt.

She jerked her arm back so hard she knocked into Maya.

“I don’t know you,” she said loudly.

Heads turned.

“You’re embarrassing yourself,” he murmured.

“Do I know you?” she repeated, louder now. “Because I don’t think I do.”

The bartender leaned over. “Everything good here?”

His expression changed.

Just for a second.

Annoyance.

“You’re doing this again,” he said, but his voice had lost its softness.

“Get away from her,” Maya snapped.

Lena felt adrenaline burn through the fog.

“If you touch me again,” she said clearly, “I’m calling the police.”

Silence stretched.

He held her gaze.

Not angry.

Not frantic.

Certain.

Like he thought he’d have another chance.

“You’re making a mistake,” he said quietly.

Then he stepped back.

And walked out.

They left through the back.

Maya didn’t let her walk alone.

They checked behind them twice.

Nothing.

Inside her apartment, Lena locked every bolt.

Her phone buzzed.

Unknown number.

You can’t pretend forever. You know me.

Her hands shook.

She took screenshots.

Blocked it.

Called the police.

For once, she didn’t delete. Didn’t laugh it off. Didn’t blame the alcohol.

Weeks later, they arrested him.

Other reports surfaced. Same pattern. Same script.

Women who drank. Women who doubted. Women who could be convinced that forgetting was their fault.

Lena testified.

Voice steady.

She barely made it out before he escalated—before she believed him enough to isolate herself, before she stepped into that car to “talk.”

The scariest part wasn’t that she didn’t recognize him.

It was how easily he made her question her own memory.

People still recognized her.

“Lena! From that club, right?”

She’d smile.

And this time, if she didn’t remember—

She’d say it plainly.

“Do I know you?”

And she wouldn’t let anyone answer for her.