My Fiancé Resets Every Seven Days—And My Best Friend Just Stole Him

Today is Wednesday. It’s time for me to "accidentally" bump into my fiancé again. Half a year ago, Asher was hit on the head by a collapsing beam during a fire rescue mission. When he woke up, his memory could only last for seven days. Every Wednesday, his brain automatically formats. He goes back to the very first day we met. So, every Wednesday morning, I go to his favorite local diner to "accidentally" meet him. I chat with him about his ginger cat, Mochi. By the fourth day, he will actively look for me. By the sixth day, he will look into my eyes and say, "I’m in this for life. It's you, Chloe. It's always been you." And in the early hours of the seventh day, I will watch him fall asleep, waiting for him to completely forget me when the sun rises. I have seventy-three voice recordings saved on my Snapchat, all of him saying those exact words: "It's always been you." His tone is identical in every single one. Because every time he says it, his love is real. It’s just that every single week, it has to start all over again. The week my grandmother passed away, I had to fly back to Oregon for her funeral. My roommate, Serena, patted my shoulder and said, "Chloe, babe, don't worry. I'll take care of him while you’re gone. Just focus on your family." So, I trusted her. I gave her the address of the diner, his exact coffee order, and told her all of Mochi's quirks. Nine days later, I finally came back. I unlocked the apartment door. Mochi was curled up on Serena’s lap. Asher walked out of the kitchen holding two bowls of pasta. When he saw me, he gave me a polite, friendly smile. "Hi there. Can I help you? Who are you looking for?" Serena wrapped her arm around his. "Babe, she’s my coworker." ***01 "Do you want to come in and sit down? I actually made a bit too much pasta," Asher said, placing the bowls on the dining table. He naturally pulled out a chair. He pulled it out for me. He did it with the polite hospitality you’d show to any random guest. It was courteous, but completely distant. I stood frozen in the entryway. The plush slippers on my feet were the ones I had spent hours searching for on Amazon. In the shoe rack by the door, his sneakers were lined up next to a pair of white canvas shoes. Women's size 8. I wear a size 7. Serena’s hand was still wrapped tightly around his arm. Her nails were painted a soft, dusty pink. She used to only wear bright red, claiming nude shades were too boring. "No, thank you. I just came to grab something." "What do you need?" Serena tilted her head, her voice incredibly natural. "The second shelf on the right side of the bedroom closet. There's a grey knitted scarf." She didn't move. Suddenly, Mochi jumped down from the sofa. He scurried over to my feet, frantically rubbing his head against my ankles. "Mochi, come back here," Serena called out, patting her thigh. The cat completely ignored her. Asher chuckled. "What’s up with him today? He’s usually not like this with strangers." Usually. Usually, Mochi only clung to me. He hated being held by Asher and would always squirm. I had to support the cat's hind legs from behind for him to calm down. But Asher didn't remember any of that. Every Wednesday, everything was wiped clean. "Your cat is really cute," I whispered, squatting down to gently scratch Mochi behind the ears. "You like cats too?" Asher’s eyes lit up. "His name is Mochi. He’s three and a half. See his left ear? There's a little notch. He got into a fight with a stray when he was a kitten—" "—and it left a scar," I finished his sentence. Asher blinked, startled. "How did you know that?" Serena quickly took the pasta bowl from his hand and set it down, her soft voice cutting in seamlessly. "I probably mentioned it at the office. I talk about Mochi all the time. Everyone at work knows about him." She pivoted the conversation so fast, like a seasoned actress following a script. No pause, no hesitation. She shut down his suspicion before he could even process it. I was the one who taught her that trick. Back when we pitched scripts together, I told her: *If a producer asks a difficult question, redirect the conversation before they can overthink it.* "Yeah. Serena mentioned him." Asher let out an "oh" and didn't press further. "I'll get that scarf for you," Serena said, scooping Mochi up from the floor. The cat let out a sharp, uncomfortable mewl. She wasn't supporting his hind legs. As Mochi struggled to break free, she just squeezed her arm tighter around him. "Don't worry about it. I'll get it next time." "Alright then," she smiled. "Get home safe, Chloe. I won't see you out. The pasta is getting cold." Asher sat down at the table and waved at me. "Drive safe." The very first time he said those words to me, he had chased me down half a block from the diner. He was panting, clutching the grey scarf I had accidentally left on the chair. That exact grey scarf. "Yeah." I turned around. Serena followed me to the door, closing it until only a small crack remained. She lowered her voice to a whisper. "Chloe, don't come back next week. Every time you show up, his vitals fluctuate. The doctor said he can’t handle emotional stress." "This is my apartment." "The lease is under Asher’s name. You didn't put your name on it back then, remember?" My hands clenched into fists inside my pockets. She was right. I thought we were getting married anyway, so it didn't matter whose name was on the lease. "What are you trying to do, Serena?" "I’m taking care of him." "You called him 'babe.' You're acting like his wife." "He was the one who called me that first," she said, looking down, her eyelashes fluttering. "He said it to me on the sixth day after you left. What was I supposed to do? Push him away?" The door clicked shut in my face. The lock turned. Standing in the dimly lit hallway, I could hear the faint, muffled voices from the living room. "Is she gone?" "Yeah." "Your coworker? She looks kind of familiar." "She’s new. We aren't really close." Then came the clinking of forks. Light, casual. Like any ordinary couple having an ordinary dinner. I leaned my back against the cold hallway wall. A few minutes later, the living room fell quiet. And then, a melody drifted through the cracks of the door. It was shaky, off-key. The pitch went up on the third note, dipped on the seventh, and ended with a long, soft exhale. There were no lyrics, just a soft, humming tune. My grandma's lullaby. My grandma was tone-deaf, so she always sang it terribly. I learned it from her, so I sang it terribly too. But Asher loved it. He said it was the only sound that made him feel safe. For seventy-three weeks, I hummed that exact song to him until he drifted off to sleep. Last month in our shared apartment, I had hummed it casually while sitting on my bed. Serena had tossed and turned on her bunk bed. "Chloe, what is that song? It's kind of catchy." "Just something my grandma used to hum. I don't even know the name." "It's beautiful." She only asked once. But now, behind that closed door, she was humming the second verse. Even that long, drawn-out exhale at the end was identical to mine. My phone buzzed. A Snapchat message from Serena. *“Chloe, get some rest. He’s asleep. Don't worry.”* ***02 "What can I get for you?" "A cinnamon roll and a hot latte, please." I sat at the second booth by the window. This was my spot. The one I had occupied every Wednesday morning for seventy-three weeks. The vinyl seat had a tiny tear on the side, and the table wobbled if you leaned on it too hard. Wednesday, 8:15 AM. Usually, at this exact time, Asher would walk through the door, sit at the empty table across from me, and order a coffee and a bagel. I waited for two hours. He never showed up. My latte went cold. A thin skin formed over the milk. I pulled out my phone and dialed his number. Serena picked up. "Chloe?" "Where is he?" "We’re eating at home. I made him breakfast." "He always comes to this diner on Wednesdays." "He used to. But I wanted to change things up. Eating the same thing every week isn't healthy. Oh, and by the way, Chloe, he reset today. You know how it is. He doesn't remember a thing. Calling him right now won't do you any good." He doesn't remember a thing. Not the fake memories Serena spent seven days building in his head. Not that she was his "wife," not her face, and not that lullaby. She had to start all over again today. "Where are you taking him today?" "There's a new cafe on the South Side. I think he’ll like it." "I’ve been there. He hates that place. The tables are too close together. He gets anxious. He needs a window seat." The line went dead silent for a few seconds. "Thanks for the tip, Chloe. I'll make sure we get a window seat." I hung up. I paid for my untouched food and walked down to the South Side. Standing across the street, I looked through the glass window of the new cafe. Asher was sitting by the window. Serena was sitting opposite him. She had listened to me. A window seat. She was laughing, tracing something on the table with her finger. Asher tilted his head, listening intently, nodding occasionally. That was his signature look when he was intrigued. The textbook reaction for Day One. I knew this routine inside out. Because I was the one who spent six months figuring it out through trial and error. Day 1: Bumping into him. Talking about the cat. Keep it casual, don't be too eager. Day 2: Do not contact him. Give him space to process. Day 3: If he shows up, let him speak first. Day 4: He will initiate contact. Day 5: Take a step closer. Day 6: He will say those words. Day 7: Watch him fall asleep. Wait. Serena sat there, executing my playbook, step by step. I turned and walked away. At 8:00 PM, I went back to his apartment building. I didn't go upstairs. I just stood on the sidewalk below. The lights on the third floor were on. The curtains were half-drawn. I could see Serena’s shadow moving in the living room, holding Mochi. Mochi was meowing again. High-pitched, anxious cries. The cat was uncomfortable. She was still holding him wrong. Her silhouette sat on the couch. Next to her, another shadow sat down. Asher. He was probably staring at his phone, or just spacing out. On the first day of his reset, he always stared blankly into space. His brain was desperately trying to fill the void of his missing memories. And then, that familiar melody drifted down from the third-floor window. It was shaky. Up on the third note, down on the seventh. Through the night air, Serena’s voice sounded so much like mine that I could barely tell the difference. I stood under the streetlamp, listening for three minutes. Then, I walked back to my lonely room. Day Two. Day Three. Day Four. On Saturday, a coworker forwarded me a screenshot of Serena’s private Instagram story. In the photo, Asher was sitting on the balcony chair. Mochi was curled up on his lap. Asher was smiling. The caption read: *“He reached out to me first today. ☀️”* I stared at that photo for a long time. I was the one who planted the ivy on that balcony. I was the one who bought that vintage chair off Craigslist. I was the one who named the cat sleeping on his knees. Everything in that photo belonged to me. Except for the smile on his face. That belonged to her now. My coworker texted me: *“Is your roommate dating your fiancé now? What’s going on?”* I didn't know how to answer. After a long pause, I typed out: *“We broke up.”* I closed the chat and opened Asher’s contact card. I knew his number better than my own social security number. Our last call was from ten days ago, the night before I left for Oregon. That night, he had whispered, "Hurry back. I'll be waiting for you." He didn't remember. But my phone did. I took a screenshot of that call log and saved it into a folder. The folder was named: *“Things He Said.”* There were already seventy-three recordings in there. Now, there was a screenshot. On Friday afternoon, my coworker sent me another screenshot of Serena’s Instagram. It was a photo of Asher in the kitchen, wearing an apron, holding a plate of food. The caption read: *“First time someone’s cooked dinner for me. ❤️”* It was his signature lasagna. He used to make it for me every single week. Seventy-three times, he had asked me, "Is it good?" And when I said yes, his eyes would crinkle up with pure joy. In the comments, Serena replied to another coworker: *“He told me I'm the only one for him.”* I flipped my phone over, screen down on the desk. "Is it good?" His voice suddenly echoed in my mind. It was so loud, so clear, that for a split second, I thought he was standing right next to me. But the room was empty. My phone vibrated again. A text from Serena. *“Chloe, he made lasagna tonight. You told me he likes extra brown sugar in the sauce, right? I added it. He said it was perfect.”* ***03 "Your project is being reassigned." Frank, the showrunner, slid a folder across the desk. The cover had the title of my script—the original pilot I had spent three months perfecting. "Reassigned to whom?" "Serena. She said you’ve been dealing with some family tragedy and aren't in the right headspace. She offered to take over the client meetings so we don't fall behind schedule." "When did she say this?" Frank flipped through his planner. "Last Thursday. She brought your outline to my office and said you authorized her to take the lead." Last Thursday. That was the day of my Grandma's memorial service. I was kneeling in front of her grave, unable to even look at my phone. Serena had sent me a text that morning: *“Chloe, honey, take all the time you need. I've got things covered here.”* I thought she meant she was watching Asher. "Frank, I never authorized that. That outline is my intellectual property." Frank sighed, rubbing the bridge of his nose. "You two need to work this out between yourselves. The network executives have already met with Serena, and they loved her pitch. It's too late to swap writers now." "It's my show! The pitch deck, the character bibles, the episodic breakdowns—I wrote every single word!" "I know, Chloe. But the executives only know Serena's face. She ran the last two creative sessions and they bought into her vision. If we pull her now, it looks bad on the studio. I can't do that." He said "I can't do that" so casually. Like he was commenting on the weather. I stormed out of his office and immediately called Serena. "Chloe! Hey, are you back? About the studio—" "You stole my project." "I didn't steal it, babe. You were gone, and the network was breathing down our necks. I was just keeping the seat warm for you." "You told Frank I authorized it." "Chloe, I was panicking. I couldn't reach you, and we couldn't just let the deadline pass. I fully intended to hand it back to you once you got back." "Then hand it back. Now." The line went quiet. Then, she let out a soft laugh. "Chloe, honey, I’ve already done two rounds of revisions based on the network's feedback. If you take over now, you won't know what they liked or hated. If you change it back to your original vision, the executives are going to lose their minds." "The revisions are still based on my outline. I can handle it." "But what if you can't? Why don't you take a few more days off, let me finish this phase of development—" "Serena." "Yeah?" "Do you think because I’m grieving, I’m an easy target?" There was a three-second silence. "You're overthinking, Chloe. I was genuinely trying to help you." Her tone was warm, gentle, and utterly sympathetic. The perfect facade. Like I said, I was the one who taught her how to play the game. I hung up and opened her Instagram. Her latest post was from this morning. A photo of her laptop screen showing my script document, next to a Starbucks cup. The caption: *“Crushing those revisions! So excited to be head-writing my very first show! 👩‍💻✨”* Head-writing. In the comments, our coworkers were leaving emojis of fire and congratulations. Not a single person pointed out that it wasn't her show. Because they didn't know. Or rather, Serena had already convinced everyone that it belonged to her. I scrolled down her feed. For the past ten days, her profile had been an alternating showcase of two narratives: First, Asher. Photos, videos, cute snippets. *“Making him dinner,”* *“He said the sweetest thing to me today,”* *“Can't believe we found each other.”* Second, her career. Pitch meetings, late-night writing sessions, network feedback. Not once did she mention my name. Ten days. In just ten days, she had constructed a perfect narrative online. The hardworking rising star, the devoted girlfriend, the angel of support. And in her story, I was nothing but "a colleague going through a rough patch." That afternoon, I ran into Zach in the breakroom. He hesitated when he saw me, then walked over with his coffee mug. "Hey, Chloe. Welcome back. You holding up okay?" "I'm fine, Zach." "Serena’s been really looking out for you. At the pitch meeting, she told the network executives that you guys co-created the show, but you had to step away for a family emergency, so she’s carrying the torch." Co-created. My pitch deck. My character bibles. My outline. She hadn't even read the first draft before I left. "Is that what she said? Her exact words?" Zach tried to recall. "Yeah... she said, 'Chloe and I built this project together. She’s dealing with a personal loss right now, so I'm stepping up to keep us on track until she's ready to jump back in.'" *Built it together. Stepping up. Keeping us on track.* Every word was calculated. It wasn't a theft; it was a rescue. It wasn't greed; it was teamwork. Anyone who heard it would think she was a saint of a friend, and that I was incredibly lucky to have her. Seeing my expression, Zach whispered, "Is everything okay? You guys are a team, right?" "Yeah," I said, throwing my paper cup into the trash. "A team." As I walked out of the breakroom, my phone buzzed. A text from Serena. It was a photo of Asher sleeping on the couch, with Mochi curled up on his chest. She attached a two-word message. *“Good night.”* Every time Asher fell asleep, I used to text myself the date followed by "Good night." She had even copied that. ***04 "What do you actually want, Serena?" Serena stood in the doorway of the apartment, blocking my way. Behind her, the door was half-open. The TV in the living room was playing a reality show, and Mochi's anxious meows echoed from the balcony. Asher wasn't home; she said he was at the clinic for his routine check-up. "I’m just here to pack up the rest of my things." "You should have texted me first. If you show up out of nowhere when he’s here, it might trigger an episode—" "He's not here. You just said so." She bit her lip, then reluctantly stepped aside. I walked in. Everything was so familiar, yet completely alien. My slippers were gone from the rack. There was a new vase on the coffee table filled with baby's breath. The framed photo of Asher and me on the fridge had been taken down, replaced by a selfie of him and Serena. I walked into the bedroom and opened the closet. The second drawer on the right was empty. "Where is my scarf?" Serena leaned against the doorframe, crossing her arms. "What scarf?" "The grey, hand-knitted one. I left it in this drawer." "Oh, that," she tilted her head. "Mochi got his claws into it last week and covered it in cat hair. I washed it and put it in the storage locker downstairs." "Where is it?" "I'll have to look for it." She turned to go to the storage closet. I stood in the bedroom, my eyes sweeping over the nightstand. There was an open notebook lying there. I took a step forward. It was Serena’s handwriting. Round, neat cursive with little loops. The first line read: **Wednesday Protocol** Underneath, she had listed: * *8:15 AM: Cafe on the South Side, Table 2 (by the window). Order a bowl of oatmeal and black coffee. Sit quietly, don't make eye contact first.* * *Talk about Mochi. Mention the nick on his left ear from a kitten fight. Keep it brief.* * *Thursday: Do not text or call. Let him wonder.* * *Saturday: He will say the words.* At the very bottom, a line was heavily underlined: * *Lullaby: Pitch up on the 3rd note, dip on the 7th. Long exhale at the end. Sing every night until he falls asleep.* My hands began to tremble. It wasn't just anger. It was a cold, sharp pain piercing my chest. I wanted to scream, but my throat felt tight. She had turned my three years of love with Asher into a step-by-step user manual. Serena walked back in with the grey scarf. Seeing me standing by the nightstand, she froze for a fraction of a second. But she didn't panic. "Chloe, those are just my notes. I was afraid I’d mess up the details you told me, so I wrote them down." "Do you have any idea what those details mean to me?" "I do," she said softly, handing me the scarf. "But to him, it doesn't matter who is doing those things. He doesn't remember last week. He only knows who is standing in front of him right now." "You are erasing me." "I am loving him." "With my routine. My cafe. My cat. My grandma's song. You copy-pasted my entire soul to insert yourself into his seven-day loop." She remained silent. I clutched the scarf tightly. "You planned this from the start, didn't you, Serena? You didn't want to help me. You wanted him." She raised her head, looking at me. There was no guilt in her eyes. Not even a sense of triumph. There was only a chilling, practical calm. "Chloe, let me ask you a question." "Go ahead." "Do you really plan on doing this for the rest of your life? Bumping into him every Wednesday, hearing him say the same words every Saturday, and watching him forget you every Sunday?" I couldn't answer. "Don't you see that you're just torturing yourself?" She reached out to touch my arm—her nervous habit whenever she was about to spin a lie. "I can give him a stable life. He doesn't need to remember the past; he just needs his present to be perfect. But you? You show up every Wednesday with tears in your eyes, looking at him like he broke your heart, and then you disappear. Don't you think that terrifies him?" I stared at her hand on my arm. "That song you hum." "What about it?" "How many times did you practice it?" Her fingers twitched, pulling back slightly. "It’s not just a song," I said, brushing her hand away. "My grandma sang that to me. She passed away last week, Serena. And you are using her memory to seduce a man who can't even remember my name." Her lips parted, but no words came out. I took my scarf and walked out. That night, I didn't go back to our shared apartment. I booked a cheap Airbnb near my office. Sitting on the edge of the bed, I opened my phone. Seventy-three voice recordings were lined up in a folder. Every single one was Asher's voice. *“I’m in this for life. It's you, Chloe.”* The first recording was from six months ago, on a rainy night. He had traced circles on the back of my hand as he said it. In the forty-seventh recording, you could hear me humming my grandma’s lullaby in the background, and his voice was thick with sleep. The seventy-third recording was from the night I got the call about my grandma. I was sobbing on the balcony, and he wrapped his arms around me from behind. *“Don't cry, Chloe. I’m in this for life. It's always been you.”* That was the last one. I transferred all seventy-three files onto a tiny black flash drive, no bigger than a fingernail. A week later, I found a small studio apartment across town. I packed my clothes and a few boxes. I locked the flash drive inside a small digital safe in the corner of the room. The passcode was Asher’s birthday. A six-digit number. Only I knew it. Before I logged off, I drafted a resignation email and cc'd Frank and Serena. It was brief: *“Resigning effective immediately due to personal reasons. Serena will take full responsibility for the project.”* I sent it and shut off my phone. The window of my new studio faced north. I couldn't see his apartment building from here. The landlady, a kind older woman named Mrs. Gable, helped me change a lightbulb and asked, "Living alone, sweetie?" "Yes." "Let me know if you need anything. I’m right next door." "Thank you, Mrs. Gable." As she walked out, she paused at the door and looked back at me. "K"Keep your chin up, honey. Whatever it is, it'll pass." It was only then that I realized tears were streaming down my face.