They call it selective neural devouring, but everyone just says memory eating.

I checked the ‘Full Sweep: Romantic Category.’ First date to final text. Yes, even the smell of his cologne. Yes, the way he laughed when nervous. Yes, that thing he said about Saturn’s rings.

I lie still as the extractor purrs beside me. A woman in lavender scrubs brushes my forehead, like she’s tucking me in.

“You might feel a tug,” she whispers.

I don’t. But I do smell roses. Burnt ones.

A flicker: his fingers in my hair, the word always, his hands not leaving when they should have.

Gone.

Outside, I’m handed a pink card:
“You may experience mild déjà vu, temporary affection for strangers, or the feeling that something important has gone missing. These are normal.”

Outside, the city hums. A man passes me. I smile. My chest aches, politely.

I do not know why.