104 Sundays of Lies

My world reset every Sunday, leaving me a blank slate for my loving fiancé, Ethan, and my best friend, Maria, to carefully guide.

Every week, Ethan would patiently show me home videos of our happy life, our engagement, and explain my amnesia, reassuring me of his devotion after my rock-climbing accident.

But a crude tattoo mysteriously appearing on my ankle, spelling "HE'S LYING," hinted at a truth my conscious mind couldn' t hold.

Then I found a hidden note: "THE PILLS ARE SLEEPING DRAFTS. DON' T TAKE THEM." My heart sank as I realized the "vitamins" Maria gave me nightly were keeping me trapped in this cycle.

I started pretending to take them, creeping out of bed one night to hear Ethan and Maria laughing, discussing how they were siphoning millions from my family, and planning their Bali escape.

That agonizing discovery was nothing compared to seeing them passionately kissing on the couch, my fiancé and my best friend.

A wave of pure, white-hot rage, unlike anything I'd ever felt, consumed me.

When I confronted them, Maria shoved me, sending my head crashing against the coffee table.

I woke up in a hospital, staring at Ethan, and then it hit me: the floodgates opened. Two years of forgotten betrayals, 104 cycles of lies, every single horrifying detail slammed back into my mind.

He hovered over me, thumb drive in hand, ready to reset me again.

"No," I whispered, forcing my voice to tremble. "Should I know who you are?"

Relief washed over his face. He thought I was broken again, unsuspecting.

But this time, I remembered everything. And he had no idea the game had just irrevocably changed.

My world resets every Sunday.

I wake up in this minimalist Los Angeles condo, the white walls so bright they hurt my eyes. A man is always sitting in the chair by the window.

He has kind eyes and a patient smile.

"Morning, Gabby," he says.

His name is Ethan. He tells me this every Sunday. He also tells me we' re engaged.

Then he tells me about the accident. Two years ago. Rock climbing. I fell. I hit my head.

Now, my memory has a seven-day limit. Every Sunday morning, the last two years vanish, and I' m 25 again, back on that cliffside, just before the fall.

He hands me a small silver thumb drive.

"It' s all in here," he says, his voice soft. "Everything you' ve forgotten."

I plug it into the laptop on the bedside table. The videos start.

There' s Ethan, his face streaked with dirt and tears, pulling me up after the fall. There he is in a hospital room, down on one knee, slipping a diamond ring onto my finger. There we are, hiking in Yosemite, laughing in front of a waterfall. Kissing under the desert stars in Joshua Tree.

He' s my hero. He' s my fiancé. He takes care of me.

A wave of guilt washes over me. I' m a burden. A broken record he has to reset every week.

"I' m so sorry, Ethan," I whisper, my eyes fixed on the screen.

"Don' t be," he says, wrapping his arms around me. "I' d do it a million times over."

His phone buzzes. He pulls away to answer it.

"Hey, Maria. Yeah, she' s up. The usual. Give us an hour."

Maria. My best friend. The name feels warm, familiar.

"Is Maria coming over?" I ask, a genuine smile spreading across my face for the first time this morning.

"She is," Ethan says. "She works with me now. At my startup."

"Your startup?"

"Yeah. Your family is funding it. They' ve been amazing. They see it as an investment in our future."

He says they' re in Europe on a long wellness retreat, and they think I' m with them. It was easier that way, he explains. Less confusion for me, less worry for them. It makes a strange kind of sense.

When Maria arrives, she rushes to hug me.

"Oh, Gabby! It' s so good to see you."

But her eyes flick to Ethan. She gives him a look that' s a little too familiar, a little too comfortable. I feel a small, sharp pang of something I can' t name.

She' s carrying a brand-new Celine handbag. I know the design. I know the price tag. It seems... out of place for someone working at a startup.

Then I see her wrist.

A new tattoo. It' s a delicate, abstract bird.

A design I sketched in my old notebook years ago. I never showed it to anyone.

"I love your tattoo, Maria," I say, my voice tight.

She glances at it, a flicker of something unreadable in her eyes. "Oh, this? Ethan' s idea. He' s got such great taste."

Later, I' m in the bedroom getting dressed. I pull on a pair of jeans and my ankle feels tender. I look down.

There, just above the bone, is a fresh tattoo. It' s crude, almost scratched into the skin.

Two words.

HE' S LYING.

My blood runs cold. I stumble back, sitting hard on the edge of the bed. I look at my hands. They' re shaking.

I need to call my family. My brother, Andrew.

I search the condo for my phone. It' s not anywhere.

"Ethan!" I call out, my voice trembling. "Where' s my phone?"

He appears in the doorway, his expression calm, practiced.

"It was smashed in the fall, remember? I ordered you a new one. It should be here in a few days."

He smiles his patient smile. But this time, it doesn' t look kind at all.

The next day is Monday. Ethan and Maria are at the "office."

The silence in the condo is deafening. I' m alone with the tattoo on my ankle and a growing knot of dread in my stomach.

I start searching. I don' t know what I' m looking for, but the tattoo proves one thing: a part of me, the me from last week, is trying to tell me something.

I go through my closet, my drawers, under the bed. Nothing.

Then I see my vintage jewelry box on the dresser. It was a gift from my grandmother. I run my fingers over the worn velvet.

I press a hidden latch on the side. A false bottom clicks open.

Inside, there' s a folded piece of paper. It' s my handwriting. Messy, rushed.

"THE PILLS ARE SLEEPING DRAFTS. DON' T TAKE THEM."

My heart hammers against my ribs. Every night, Maria brings me a small white pill. A "vitamin," she calls it. To help with my "recovery."

I' ve been taking it every night. For two years.

That night, Maria comes into my room, a glass of water in one hand, the little white pill in the other.

"Time for your vitamin, sleepyhead," she says, her voice sickly sweet.

I take the pill from her palm. I put it in my mouth, take a big sip of water, and swallow, making sure she sees my throat move.

But I don' t swallow the pill. I hide it under my tongue. The bitter taste coats my mouth.

"Good night, Gabby," she says, patting my head.

"Good night, Maria," I say, my voice muffled.

I wait until I hear the bedroom door click shut. Then I spit the wet, chalky pill into my hand and hide it under my mattress.

I lie in the dark, my body rigid, my ears straining for any sound. I force my breathing to be slow and even. I have to pretend.

An hour passes. Then another.

Finally, I hear voices from the living room. Low at first, then louder.

It' s Ethan and Maria.

They' re laughing.