Sweet Romance14 min read
I Forgot Only Him, So I Called Him "Brother"
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"I fell on flat ground and broke my memory."
"You're not making that up, are you?" Kamilah said, half laughing, half worried.
"I wish I were," I said. "I remember the bus routes, homework answers, the smell of my father's coffee. I remember our neighbors' dogs and the girl in my chemistry class who always dyes her hair purple. I remember everything. Except one person."
Kamilah's eyes lit up like mischief. "Who?"
"You won't believe me." I tightened the bandage at my hairline. My head still throbbed when I smiled too hard. "I remember everybody, but I can't remember Flynn."
Kamilah's mouth fell open. "Flynn Lefebvre? My brother Flynn? You mean him? The cinema ticket Flynn carried out the other day?"
"Who is Flynn?" I said.
She stared at me like I'd started speaking in another language. "You really hit your head hard."
We were standing under the old cinema sign, late afternoon light warming the letters. Cars hissed by on wet asphalt. The scent of popcorn floated to us.
"Flynn's my brother," Kamilah explained slowly. "Sort of. My dad and his dad—long story. He gives me a big red envelope every holiday. He's rich. He goes to movies a lot. He's... well, you liked him once."
"You sound shocked," I said.
"I am." She leaned closer, like this could be a secret only we shared. "You followed him for years. You told everyone he was the sun, and you were the planet who never escaped his orbit."
"I? Me?" I looked at my shaky hands. "I would never stalk anyone."
She rolled her eyes but then reached for my hand. "C'mon. Let's wait. If Flynn's here, I can see his face for you."
We waited. And waited.
"He's watching a school screening," said a voice. I turned. In the doorway stood Flynn Lefebvre—cap pulled low, leather jacket, slightly annoyed expression. He looked good. He looked exactly like what I felt I should have liked.
"Do you remember me?" he asked me without preface.
I blinked. He was more handsome than Kamilah had warned. Single crease near his mouth when he frowned.
"No," I said.
He looked at me the way someone looks at a clock running backward. "You really forgot me?"
"Yes," I said, honest and a little excited. I had a thought—if I couldn't remember him, maybe he wasn't the one who had broken my heart before. Maybe I could have something easier: a brother.
"Flynn," Kamilah said, trying to sound casual. "She's—she had a fall. She forgot one person. So you are safe."
He took off his cap at the wind. "You fell and forgot me?"
"Yes."
He stared in that exact way and then sighed. "Fine." He put on a small, resigned smile. "If you call me 'brother' from now on, fine. I'll—I'll be your brother."
I said it without thinking. "Brother."
Something in his face broke. His rigid composure shifted. "Sister," he answered, as if someone had slid a key into their palm. "Sister."
Kamilah clapped. "We officially have a brother!"
We left the cinema with two snack bags and one large secret: I had just claimed an easy shortcut to holiday treats. If he was my brother, his yearly red envelope was mine, too.
"You're ridiculous," Flynn muttered as we walked. "Don't be ridiculous."
But he handed me a red envelope when I thanked him—eight thousand eight in neat, careful notes that smelled faintly of his cologne. I tucked it away and slid my phone open to change Kamilah's contact name to "Ever Loyal Kamilah."
That night I rehearsed the new world: Flynn—the man I could not remember—was now my brother. It was perfect.
"You sure this is because you forgot him?" Kamilah asked the next day over instant noodles. She had the habit of saying anything dramatic like she wanted it to happen.
"I am sure," I answered. "If I can't feel anything for him, he's wallet-accessible." I tried to sound like a joke. My head throbbed. My smile felt like someone else's.
Kamilah's grin was soft. "Promise me you won't be a terrible sister."
"I won't," I said, though I wasn't sure which of us I had promised.
Two weeks later we ran into Flynn under the old tree by the dorms. I had taken off my bandage, refused to coddle myself despite my father's worried looks. I wanted independence. I wanted the red envelope benefits to feel earned.
We were waiting for a bus when I bumped into a boy. He had a calm face, pale as winter, and eyes that laughed. He called himself Evan Carney.
"Sorry," I said.
"Your hand—" he said, and laughed softly. "You ripped the strap."
He asked for my WeChat. "In case there are fights," he said with a grin, "you can drag me along."
"You're hired," I told him because why not. Evan added me and he seemed harmlessly kind.
Meanwhile Flynn watched, arms crossed, like a statue that had been told to look displeased. "You shouldn't be out," he said later, voice prickly. "Stay home, don't take buses. Your head—"
"It's boring at home," I said. "And the bus smells like summer. Besides, it's not like I beat other people up for fun."
"Don't be reckless," he said, looking at me as if I were a prescription he could read.
We got off at the same stop as the badminton courts that afternoon. Evan and I met again at the club. I told him he could be my partner. The captain was—of course—Flynn. He was taller than I thought. Sweat clung to his jaw as he wiped his face with a towel, and he said, almost like a reprimand, "You knew I was here."
"I had a friend come," I said. "She convinced me to check the club out."
Evan smiled and offered me a bottle of water. Flynn watched him and did something strange: he let his gaze soften, then he looked back at me, annoyed. "This didn't make you forget me," he said.
"Did I ever?" I asked honestly.
He said, "I only ever thought of you as a sister."
His voice was flat. He looked like someone who had been practicing a kind of calm until it became permanent.
"He gives Kamilah money," I murmured, suddenly curious. "You give Kamilah money?"
"Not relevant," Flynn said.
It wasn't that I had set out to use cost benefits. I had simply always been a practical person. Still—I couldn't stop smiling when Evan defeated me at the court with a single flick that made me miss the shuttlecock entirely.
"You're full of tricks," I grumbled as Evan taught me how to hold a racket. The way his fingers smoothed my grip made my heart jump, the small, shy, good kind that comes when you're learning to love someone ordinary. It was a warm, golden type of nervousness.
Flynn came over while Evan adjusted my stance. His face narrowed. "What are you doing?" he asked.
"He's teaching me," I said.
"Teaching you?" His voice turned low. "He touched your hand."
"He was teaching me to hold the racket," I said. "I am not in some fragile state. Be reasonable."
Flynn's eyes stayed on my hand for a moment too long. "Keep proper distance," he said suddenly.
"Brother," I said reflexively. "You taught me to respect boundaries, didn't you?"
"Just—don't let him get too close," he said, almost pleading. "Not like that."
I looked at the two of them, two boys who wanted something different. Evan grinned bravely, and Flynn, for the first time since I had met him with the little bandage on my forehead, looked like a man who had something he wasn't supposed to have.
That night, when I told Kamilah about the court, she wriggled with suspicion. "He's jealous," she declared. "He doesn't like you making friends he doesn't approve of."
"Jealous?" I repeated.
"Yes," she said with that fierce conviction only friends have. "You should make him jealous back. Use it. He can't mean 'only sister' if he watches you like that."
But I didn't want to play that game. It felt childish and unfair to Evan and unfair to myself.
Then the pen incident happened.
I had a beautiful fountain pen wrapped and tucked inside a blue bag. I meant it for Flynn's birthday even though I called him my brother. It was a showpiece: a sleek, black, expensive-looking pen I had chosen because I wanted something impressive to give to someone impressive. I asked him to open it only after I left. He messaged back: "I don't need it. Let Kamilah take it back."
My stomach dropped. "Why?" I asked the screen.
Later my mother called. "Sweetie, that blue bag—did you take it? I put your father's new underwear in it by mistake."
My face went hot. "What?"
"And the pen—your father says he put it in your desk."
I did the five-second panic math and rescinded my message to Flynn. My mother laughed on the other end like the world's most judgmental chorus. I felt small and ridiculous.
Flynn returned the pen to me the next day. "You didn't give this to me," he said.
"I never intended to," I admitted. "It was a mistake."
"Take care of your things," he muttered. Then, as if the words were trapped under his teeth, he added, "I don't want you with a boyfriend who stands too close."
"So I'm not allowed to have friends?" I asked.
"It's not about friends."
"Then what is it about?"
He met my eyes and for a moment the mask slipped. "If you were in danger, I wouldn't forgive myself."
I was flattered and a little frightened. "It's only Evan," I said. "He's kind."
"Still, keep him at a respectful distance," Flynn said.
I pretended to agree. Inside, a small seed of worry sprouted. He sounded like someone who thought he could decide whose hands could touch me. I kept my distance. I wanted to protect Evan but not because Flynn said so—because I liked Evan.
Evan asked me to dance the week before the masked ball. He said he wanted me as his partner. I said yes because he had been kind in ways that made me feel like the center of a small, happy orbit.
Teaching me to dance, Evan was patient. He searched for rhythm like he searched for words. When my foot trod on his for the fourth time and he laughed, I wanted to die of embarrassment and also to be nearer. He changed his shoes to thick-soled ones to save his toes. "Try those," he said. "If I can't survive, at least the dance will."
We learned the movement until the steps were second nature. I told Kamilah about the dance. "I'm nervous," I admitted.
"Of course you are," she said. "You're about to shine."
The day of the masked ball, Flynn was not his usual distance deity. He kept sneaking glances at me, the kind of way that made me think maybe my forgetting him had been a mercy for one of us. He had quit being a brother and became something that should have been off-limits.
At the party, the game was cruelly arranged. "Truth or dare?" someone shouted. Cards were drawn. Flynn was asked if there was a girl he liked.
Without looking away from me, he said, "Yes."
"Who?" someone demanded.
He looked at me like a man deciding whether to jump and lie. "You."
I felt the floor shift. Evan's fingers in mine tightened for a second. "Are you serious?" I mouthed, but he couldn't hear.
The night thundered into a hush. People pointed. Someone nearby laughed in a stunned, not-unpleasant way. Someone else snapped photos with a phone.
Why would a man who've called himself my brother suddenly say he liked me in front of crowds? I pressed my lips together so I wouldn't cry or laugh.
Later, Evan asked for a dare. He kissed someone else lightly on the cheek for laughter's sake. I blushed and pretended to be jealous. Then a glass shattered and Flynn said something about hands slipping—an accident—and the room trembled with small gossiping noises.
After the ball, we tried to move forward. The semester winded down. I started studying for a license test during the summer—my father insisted I learn to drive. Evan signed up too, like his life had decided to run alongside mine. We rode to practical tests on a little electric scooter. Evan wrapped his denim jacket around my shoulders in the morning chill. "You're freezing," he said.
"You're the best," I said. "I have a mechanic of warmth."
He smiled. "I am also like a very small, committed heater."
He kissed my forehead. It was private and safe. I liked that about Evan: his ordinary, reliable warmth.
One evening, after I passed the first driving test questions because I'd stayed up memorizing road signs, Evan asked me, quietly, "Would you ever move somewhere far?"
"Wherever you are," I said, without thinking. His mouth made a small surprised shape. "No, really. Wherever you are is where I'd like to go."
He blinked. "Because I think the place I want to go most is where you are."
We studied and practiced and failed a maneuver or two. The driving teachers teased me in the way teachers tease to make you try harder. "Keep your hands steady," they said. "Keep your head steady." Evan waved a tiny flag at me every practice, "Jessie, you can do it!" he'd cheer.
The summer blurred. I failed a test, then passed. Evan laughed and said I'd cheated the universe out of its misery. We got our licenses and celebrated with too much rice. My father pretended not to be proud; my mother made us an enormous dinner to mark the occasion.
Flynn didn't come by much. He said he was busy with a studio project, and he disappeared into work. Kamilah said he was like the President of Busytown. I didn't see him for days that turned into weeks.
Then at summer's end we attended a badminton club celebration back at school. We sat together—a triangle of me, Evan, and Flynn. It was a fragile geometry.
We played a game, as students do, and Flynn drew a card: "Truth." Someone asked him if there was someone he liked, and he said he did.
"Who?" someone asked again.
He looked right at me and said, "You."
Evan's hand in mine tightened until I could feel the bone. The room went quiet like a held breath. Girls giggled; boys leaned in. Lin Wei—the older student who everyone liked—put her hand to her mouth and smiled with the kind of secret shared between conspirators.
"Maybe he likes her," Kamilah whispered to me, hopeful adoration shining in her own storybook way.
But when I confronted Flynn the next day about why he'd said such a thing, he looked smaller and not like the man whose largesse had once given Kamilah an assortment of red envelopes.
"Who told you I liked Lin Wei?" he demanded.
"I thought you just did," I said.
He stepped closer. "What if I said I liked you?" His voice went raw, the sort of voice that didn't expect comfort.
"You—?" My brain misfired. "You said, 'I only ever saw you as a sister.'"
"That was then," he said. "I was wrong."
"Brother—" I reached for the familiar word out of habit.
He jerked back like I'd struck him. "Don't call me that. Please."
"Why?" I asked, suddenly afraid for a reason I couldn't name.
"Because I'm not your brother," he said. His voice broke. He clamped his hands to his face, a brittle, private thing, and for a moment he sobbed like someone who had been holding their breath for years.
"Kamilah told me you'd been in love with me a while," I said. "She told me you chased me. You told her you only saw me as a sister—so why—"
He looked at me with such honesty that my chest tightened. "I was wrong then," he said. "Now I know better."
Evan, heavy in my life, sat quietly, waiting.
"I love him," I said aloud, more to myself than to anyone, and it felt true in my bones.
"Don't," Flynn said, furious and pained. "Don't be with him."
"Why not?" I asked, words sharp now. "Because you want me? Because you finally decided to feel something you couldn't have before?"
"Yes," he said. "Yes, because it's you."
Suddenly the story I had been living—the safe, ordinary love with Evan—feels like a book on my lap while someone reached from inside and tore out the pages.
Flynn's emotions turned outward like wind. He wanted me to be only his. He didn't know how to ask so he ordered. He didn't know how to ask for me to choose so he demanded.
"Don't call me brother," he said again. "Don't date him."
I looked at Evan. He held my hand like a lighthouse in stormy weather.
"I love Evan," I said. "He is kind and steady." I meant it, as much as I could in that ocean of suddenness.
Flynn's face pinched. "Then don't say you forgot me," he said. "You lied."
"I didn't—" I started.
"You did." He soundlessly dragged the word like a weight. "You let me be a brother for your convenience."
I couldn't say whether it was fair or cruel. I had forgotten him. I had chosen a title. He had used it to let me close to him and suddenly wanted to undo his own kindness.
After that evening, Flynn stopped coming to the courts. He did not answer some messages. When he did, his tone was clipped. He became a ghost of the man who had once been present for popcorn and red envelopes.
Kamilah worried. "Do you think he means to hurt anyone?" she asked when we studied for final exams.
"I don't know," I said. He had wanted me badly. But he hadn't been cruel, at least not then. He had been clumsy and confused.
Time went by. Evan and I lived in the normal way lovers do—we cooked little dinners, we fell asleep tangled, we argued about nonsense, then made up because it felt right. We bought a small apartment near the sea later, with a balcony that smelled like salt and a toothbrush holder with two cups. We paid bills together and argued about which way the curtains should hang. We married in a small ceremony where Kamilah wore a dress we both thought looked like a brave color.
On my wedding day, Kamilah came to me with a small folded note.
"Flynn sent this," she said, voice unreadable.
My hands shook as I opened it. It was a short message: "Newlyweds—be happy."
Kamilah looked up, eyes glossy. "He asked me to tell you that."
I looked across the room at Evan, at the groom who made a thousand small promises, the man who had learned to make coffee the way I liked it and to bring fruit in the mornings. He held my gaze and smiled like we'd been practicing this for a thousand days.
In the ceremony, the officiant asked a question that felt like a bell: "Do you take him...?"
"I do," I said.
I thought of Flynn then—how he had been the urgent weight behind some of the chaos. I thought of the blue bag with my father's underwear and the pen tucked inside, of the badminton courts, the driving tests, the masked ball and the way Evan had taught me to move.
After the vows, when I walked down the small aisle of our reception hall, carrying a bouquet that smelled like something summer promised, Kamilah tugged my sleeve.
"Flynn asked if he could send a video," she whispered.
On the little screen, Flynn leaned into a camera, a bit awkwardly. He looked different—tired and careful. "Jessie," he said. "I—I'm sorry for everything that was messy. I was late to understand myself. I'm learning how to be okay when things don't go the way I wanted."
He paused. "You deserve a calm life. You deserve a man who will hold your hand on bad days. It seems Evan does that. The last thing I want is to stand in the way." He looked up and forced a small smile. "I hope you're happy."
There was a hush in the room, the kind that isn't empty but full of a million small kindnesses.
Evan squeezed my hand. "He did the right thing"—there was gratitude in his voice, not triumph.
I folded the note into my palm like a secret and felt some odd, gentle peace.
Years passed. Evan and I painted the living room badly and fixed it together even more badly. We bought a house that faced the sea. We argued about the color of the curtains, and once, we planted a small money tree at the edge of our yard because I joked that I would raise a tree that could pay for our silly bills.
Flynn faded into the background but never entirely disappeared. Once, he came by with Kamilah and brought her a birthday present. He looked awkward and happy, like someone learning how to breathe.
He didn't cause scenes. He did not demand or plead. He offered a gift and a grin, and that was enough.
At our wedding reception, among the clinking glasses and the warmly lit room, Kamilah lifted her cup. "To the brave ones," she said, and everyone laughed. "To the people who loved messy and still chose tenderness."
Flynn watched from the doorway, hands folded. When the cake was cut and the lights dimmed, he came up to me and quietly—without a crowd, with no one to judge—he placed a small, wrapped box in my hands.
"I thought of you," he said.
"Thank you," I said.
He found my eyes. "I was a fool," he said simply. "I didn't know how to be what you needed. I'm sorry."
"You were kind once," I said.
"I might be kind again," he said, with a smile like sunrise. "Just... not in that way."
We laughed. "Then be my friend," I said.
He nodded, and something soft unknotted between us.
The life with Evan flowed like water around stones: sometimes bubbling, sometimes settled. I had moments where I would think about the person I had forgotten and the small, ridiculous way being a 'sister' had given me a red envelope and a fallible crossroad.
One evening, years later, when the sea sounded like an old record and the curtains barely moved, Evan pressed a ring box into my hand. "Marry me again?" he whispered.
"I already did," I said.
"Then marry me anew," he said.
I laughed and the laugh landed like a bell.
At the far edge of our shelf, behind photo frames, I kept the little pen Flynn once returned—its black surface scratched in a way that looked like a map. Every time I saw it I remembered the odd mess of feelings that life makes.
I had lost memory and discovered that forgetting one person didn't mean losing the story of my life. It meant choosing the lines I wanted to live by.
"Do you ever think about him?" Evan asked once.
"Sometimes," I said. "I remember the way he looked at me the day I called him brother. I remember the small, helpless way he cried. I remember how he learned to let go."
He pulled me close. "Good," he said. "Because I prefer being the one who gets to wake you up, even if you sometimes snooze forever."
I kissed him. "I prefer it too."
We kept the pen on the shelf like a small witness. Not a weapon, not a memory to strike with, but a piece of metal that had recorded a strange fall and a stranger's change of heart.
And when guests asked us, at the house on the hill that smelled of salt and toast, how we had found each other, I would say, "I fell on flat ground and forgot one person. I called him brother. The rest learned to be honest with me."
It wasn't a neat story. It was full of mistakes and small mercies. But when I looked at Evan, with the ribbon of light across his hair and the sound of the ocean telling us its slow, patient tales, I knew I had learned how to choose the kind of love that made mornings into something I wanted to get up for.
The End
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