Remember to Forget

At the age of twenty-two, Sophia is starting to forget things. She is - or perhaps was now, remarkably good at remembering things. She thought, if she ever been good at something, it is definitely to remember. She remembers where she put last winter's receipt of jumper she bought in Topshop on the second drawer on her beside table. She remembers she put the loose screw from her shoe rack that she unable to put it back in the red tin where she keeps all her small jewellery and spare buttons. She remembers her best friend, Rosie's mother birthday on the 31st of January. She remembers her local bartender's goldfish name. She used to remember all the littlest things. But yesterday, she forgot whether she had turned off the stove after making her scrambled egg or not. She forgot where she put her favourite raincoat when it was actually raining outside. And this morning, Sophia forgot to close her bathroom window after left it wide open to let the steam out, resulting she had to walk back to her house and late for her first morning lecture of the new term. But nevertheless, she realised one thing today: that after a very long while, she finally forgot that Joe was once meant love to her.