The Time Your Name Lost Its Place In My Mouth

I said your name aloud and the room corrected me by going quiet.

The corridor lights dimmed as if sound itself had weight and I stood there with my mouth still shaped around the last syllable waiting for it to come back to me. It did not. The station did not announce an error. It simply absorbed the absence and moved on. Somewhere beyond the walls a transport disengaged and I felt the vibration travel through the floor into my bones too late to matter.

I pressed my tongue against my teeth trying to remember how the name used to land.

I met Naomi Calder Reyes in a memory lab that was never meant for people. The room was circular and softly lit with walls that shifted color based on neural activity. It smelled faintly of antiseptic and warm plastic. Naomi stood in the center adjusting a neural lattice with careful hands. When she noticed me she smiled like she had already seen me before and decided I was acceptable.

You are late she said kindly.

I gave her my full name Aaron Michael Holloway and apologized even though the schedule said I was early. She nodded as if both things could be true.

The station Mnemosyne Array was designed to study memory persistence across relativistic travel. What happened to love memory identity when time stretched and folded. My job was structural analysis. Hers was deeper. She mapped how memories nested inside one another how emotional weight altered recall. She treated memory like a living thing.

We worked close together because the equipment demanded it. Headsets shared. Screens overlapping. Her voice stayed calm even when readings spiked. I learned to recognize when she was holding back concern by the way she slowed her breathing.

The first weeks passed gently. Shared meals. Long silences broken by quiet observations. Outside the lab the station simulated seasons that did not match any real planet. Leaves fell in one corridor. Snow drifted in another. Naomi loved it. She said it reminded her that reality was negotiable.

The first warning sign came when a subject recalled a memory that had not yet occurred. Naomi replayed the data three times. Her brow furrowed. That should not be possible she said.

Later that cycle I dreamed of a conversation with her in which she told me goodbye. When I woke the words clung to me like fog.

The array allowed researchers limited exposure to the memory field to test continuity. Naomi volunteered often. I did not like it but I trusted her expertise. She reassured me with small smiles and precise language. We maintained boundaries. We always said we would stop before it became dangerous.

Over time the field began to blur edges. Naomi would reference things I did not remember telling her. I would forget small details then remember them suddenly at the wrong moment. Once I called her by the wrong name a name that belonged to no one. She froze only briefly before correcting me.

We should log that she said.

We did. The system flagged it yellow.

One evening we sat together in the observation dome where the stars were projected from archived data. Naomi leaned back with her eyes closed listening to the hum of the station.

Do you ever worry she asked that memories choose what to keep without us.

I thought of my childhood already fuzzy at the edges. Of faces I could not quite place. Yes I said.

She reached for my hand without looking and held it lightly. The contact grounded me and frightened me. The lights warmed around us.

The next day a test went wrong. A subject lost the ability to recall a central emotional memory while retaining factual context. They remembered the event but not how it felt. Naomi watched the playback pale and silent.

If we stay too long she said we might do the same.

We began to pull back. Reduced exposure. Shorter sessions. Still the bleed through continued. I started forgetting names of colleagues. Naomi forgot the layout of her childhood home. We compared notes like survivors.

Our feelings for each other grew in the spaces left behind. We did not name them. Naming felt dangerous.

The breaking point came when Naomi failed to recall my name during a routine check. She hesitated smiled apologetically and asked me to repeat it. I did. The sound felt wrong in my mouth like a word borrowed.

That night we argued softly in the lab lights low and pulsing. She wanted to continue. The data was too important. I wanted her to stop before she lost more. Before she lost me.

What if I already am she asked quietly.

The decision was made by the board. Naomi would undergo a deeper immersion to map the failure points. It was a controlled risk. They assured us the loss would be temporary.

The day of the procedure the room was cool and bright. Naomi lay back as the lattice engaged. She squeezed my hand once then let go.

When she woke she looked at me with polite curiosity.

Hello she said.

I told her my name. She repeated it carefully. I asked her to say hers. She did. It sounded intact. Something twisted in my chest.

Days passed. Weeks. She remembered facts. Procedures. She did not remember us. She treated me with kindness professional warmth. Every time she asked my name it hurt differently.

Eventually she was cleared for reassignment. The station prepared her transfer. I walked with her to the departure corridor the lights too bright the air too clean.

You have been very patient she said to me smiling.

I wanted to tell her everything. I did not. Some truths cannot survive being reintroduced.

When she left I stood alone and said her name until it lost shape.

Time moved on. The array continued. I adapted to absence. I learned which memories faded first and how to brace against it.

Years later the station received a personal message addressed to me. Naomi Calder Reyes appeared on screen older tired but focused.

I remember you she said. Not how. But that I should.

I closed my eyes.

When she returned we met again in the memory lab. The walls shifted softly around us. She said my name without hesitation. Aaron Michael Holloway she said like it had waited.

I smiled and took her hand.

As the room settled I realized the silence from before had not been correction. It had been space making room for her name to come back to me when it was ready.