Rey stood in the middle of a pitch-black room. The silence was so heavy it made his ears ring. The corners of the space faded into an endless void, yet despite the darkness, Rey could see clearly. Objects were drifting aimlessly near the ceiling—his mangled motorcycle, a shattered helmet, books, shoes, a phone, and other belongings he vaguely recognized. They spun in a slow, eerie dance.
What a bizarre sight, he thought.
His eyes were drawn to something floating directly above him. It was a bright yellow, oval object about the size of a tennis ball—a stark contrast to the wreckage surrounding it.
No mistake about it. A lemon!
He stood on his tiptops, reaching out to grab it. Out of reach. He tried to jump, fingers straining toward the fruit.
Thud!
The fruit suddenly dropped, hitting him right on the forehead. Rey winced, leaning down to pick it up, just as a faint, distant scream jolted him awake.
"I love youuu!"
Rey bolted upright, gasping for air. Sweat clung to his temples. He tried to steady his breathing, rubbing his eyes as a dull ache throbbed in his skull. That woman's voice... a voice he felt he'd never heard before, yet it felt hauntingly familiar. In the hazy afterglow of his dream, a refreshing scent of lemon lingered in his subconscious.
His chest felt tight. Reaching for the tumbler on his nightstand, he gulped down the water, trying to drown the sudden surge of anxiety.
***
Morning arrived. Rey was busy in front of his bookshelf, his eyes scanning the rows of spines. Nothing stood out until he spotted a brown journal. He pulled it out; the synthetic leather cover was worn and peeling, but it had been well-cared for. It seemed he'd once used it for school notes, as the first few pages were covered in academic scribbles.
From now on, Rey decided this journal would be his anchor—a place to record anything that might lead him back to his lost self.
LEMON
What and Why?
For some reason, I feel like this fruit is important. Is it my favorite? Did I forget something about it? he wondered.
Chewing on the end of his pen, Rey realized that having a phone was his best shot at finding answers. His gaze then drifted to his computer desk, landing on a framed photo of his late mother. She had passed away when he was still in elementary school. He picked it up, his eyes misting over.
This is Mom... there's no way I'd ever forget someone this important, he thought.
He felt a wave of relief that his most precious memory remained intact. As he went to set the frame back down, his hand brushed against something hidden behind it. A cylinder with a small slit on top.
"A piggy bank?" he muttered. He picked it up, shaking it to gauge the weight.
Whoa, feels pretty heavy! A wide grin broke across his face.
He grabbed a pair of scissors and carefully pried it open. After counting the crumpled bills and coins, his eyes widened. It's a lot! Definitely enough for a used phone, he figured.
But in my condition, I can't exactly go out hunting for a phone myself. Maybe Dad can help?
Leaning on his crutches, he slowly made his way to the living room, where his father was finishing his morning coffee before work.
"Dad, can I ask for a favor?"
His father looked up. "What is it, Rey?"
"I have some savings. Could you pick me up a used phone and a new SIM card on your way back from the shop tonight?"
"A phone? I don't know much about the latest models, you know," his father said.
"Anything is fine, Dad. As long as the budget fits," Rey chuckled.
***
Rey spent the day doing light laps around the house on his crutches. He needed his legs to remember how to walk as much as he needed his brain to remember his life. When he wasn't practicing, he pored over his old books. He realized he once had a deep interest in computer science and graphic design—and remarkably, that knowledge remained wired in his brain.
Later, he lay on his bed, a book resting face-down on his chest, staring at the ceiling. He replayed the doctor's words: Amnesia has no certain cure, no guaranteed therapy. The only way was to train his memory using tools—agendas, photos, and journals.
He sat up, crossed his legs, and opened his brown journal to jot down a strategy:
• Figure out the computer password.
• Search for info/photos of people and places (the PC is key).
• Reach out to old school friends.
• Social media?
...
...
So many dead ends. I have to piece this together one by one. It won't be easy, but I can do this, he told himself.
That evening, his father returned with a package—a pink smartphone with a small crack in the upper right corner. It came with a charger, earphones, and a sealed SIM card.
"P-Pink??" Rey asked, bewildered.
"It was the only one they had in your price range," his father replied with a small laugh.
"Hehe. It's fine, I guess," Rey said, scratching his head with a wry smile. He knew he couldn't be picky with the budget he'd provided.
"By the way, Dad, do you still have Kristofer's number? Uncle Albert's son?"
"I should. Here, check my phone," his father said, handing it over.
Rey scrolled through the contacts. K... Krishna... Kris-to-fer... Got it!
He copied the number into his journal, thanked his father, and headed back to his room. He sat at his desk, turned on the lamp, and plugged the pink phone into the charger. It was at 20%.
Then, he reached into his desk drawer and pulled out the "corpse" of his old phone. It was a pathetic sight—the screen was pulverized into shards, and the white casing was covered in deep black gouges. He carefully pried it open, hoping for a memory card.
Nothing. It seemed this model only had internal storage.
"Ugh... Dammit!" Rey sighed, frustration bubbling up. It was maddening how his brain played games with him—he could remember complex coding and design principles, but couldn't remember if his own damn phone had a microSD slot.
***
"Making a paper isn't actually that hard, but if every single assignment is a paper, I think it's our mental health that needs a psychologist," Kris groaned, sprawling out on the floor. He laced his fingers behind his head, a pen tucked behind his right ear.
His three groupmates were equally checked out.
Andi, who had been the "cheerleader" of the group so far, was strumming his guitar and humming, contributing absolutely nothing to the actual work. He occasionally took a drag from a cigarette resting on an ashtray on the floor. As the host of the study session, he clearly felt he'd done his part.
Then there was Nova, who was busy texting. She was hunched over, cheek resting on her hand. A faint smile played on her lips while her laptop sat idle, playing a YouTube video titled "30 Lo-fi Tracks to Study To."
"Hwaaaa, when is this going to be over? I want to go hoooome," Sena whined, her frustration peaking. She rested her chin on the table, tapping her pen rhythmically against the surface.