John and Albie stalk projections of their former selves through their old college campus. The experience is still overstimulating to John, so he practices deep, slow breaths. Just like the neurotechs taught him. He tries to stay present, to not let his eyes deny what’s in front of him.
Albie, on the other hand, is at peace with the unreality. He’s been rifling through his memories long before John came on board.
This dive has, overall, been better for John than the last few attempts — far less of a sensory overload. The act of processing what he sees and feels and hears is getting more and more manageable. Still, it leaves him feeling unnerved. Everything is too familiar. Eerie. Terrifying, really. Everything is how John remembers it — even if it’s enmeshed with Albie’s impressions — but it’s so frozen, stunted, empty. An interpretation of a bygone era.
The memories already seem so distant, sliced into a “then” apart from their “now,” eras bracketed off by particular impressions and vibes and responsibilities. The free time of their college days, the intense practice of the mind, seeing your friends every day by accident, in passing between classes. A feeling of comfort and belonging outside one's apartment. It all seems so alien now. Like his soul has since been reincarnated into a new body.
Their ghosts meander toward a small, rarely used pedestrian bridge arching over the creek just off campus. They know what’s to come, a memory that stands out in both of their minds: the time when, buzzed on boxed red wine swiped from a “Tour de Franzia” party on fraternity row, they kissed for the first and only time.
They are eager to see how Albie’s memory plays the scene out. Anticipation helps John reach a tenuous calm.
They watch themselves stumble on the bridge, bullshitting to each other. Occasionally their words stray off into incomprehensible gibberish, the aural equivalent of a blurred image. Memories aren't picture perfect, aren’t linear, so it makes sense that these crass recreations wouldn't be either.
They could fast-forward through the muddier parts with the click of a button, easy as a video. But both feel the need to wait. This world is weird enough without playing it at 2x speed.
This experience activates a whole new level of nostalgia in both of them. The simulation isn’t real, but it is a greater and closer approximation of real than they have ever before experienced through baseline memory. These memories are no longer in their heads but truly relived. If still in an out-of-body sort of way, all their senses work together in the recreations. They can’t interact with the memories, but they can still feel and smell something, a distilled impression. sense-recollections rooted deep within their bodies.
“Hey, I’ve got an idea,” Albie says while their past selves dawdle. He knows John needs something to keep his mind occupied. “What’s something you kept from me in college?”
“What do you mean?” John asks.
“You know. Mean things you heard about me. Stuff you did behind my back. C’mon. It was years ago now. Let’s be honest with each other.”
John thinks about it.
“You go first,” he says. “I can’t think of anything.”
“Alright: I made out with that guy Corey at a party once back when you were crushing on him hard.”
“What!” John laughs. “But I called dibs!”
It’s the kind of shock that makes him giddy to hear. Something that would have felt like betrayal back then but means nothing now. He can’t even remember the last time he thought about Corey.
“Sorry,” Albie says with an impish smile. “Now you go.”
“Um.” John scrunches his face up like he’s repulsed by what he’s about to say. “I guess some of your friends used to make fun of you when you weren’t around. For, like, crying and complaining about boys and how tough classes were and stuff. Like Lia and Eleanor and Zeke. That crowd.”
“Oh that’s so unsurprising.” Albie long ago fell out or lost touch with that group anyway. “Why didn't you ever tell me?”
“You were pretty vulnerable at the time,” John says. “I don't know, it didn't seem right. I did kind of steer you clear of them. Indirectly. Invited you to stuff where I knew those guys wouldn’t be around, you know.”
“Oh yeah! I remember you aggressively wanting to hang out alone that semester.”
“All part of my big conspiracy to get you away from bad friends."
“I thought you were into me at that point.”
“Psh. You wish.”
As he says this, they look at themselves on the bridge, arms crossed over shoulders.
John remembers this kiss as a relatively platonic thing, a perhaps too bold physical statement of affection. Albie remembers it somewhat more complexly, an expression of unstated desires neither would have acted on for fear of fucking up a good friendship. One of their first conversations was about how they found it annoying that gay men never seem to be able to be friends without fucking. Both, as it happens, have since fucked their friends.
Watching the scene in action, it’s tough to tell who started it. Which makes sense. This is life remembered, not lived. The evening sky is a garish raspberry color that could never have existed in real life. The feeling of the wind is still there, but the chill is subdued, their runny noses forgotten. Instead it is comfortable, in tune with the sweet feelings that resonated between them that night. So too is this kiss, a little more impressionistic than reality. Both as romantic and as friendly as they want it to be.
“Well, I guess that answers that,” John says.
“Really? I'd love to know what that answered.”
“It was a mutually enabling thing, looks like.”
Albie thinks it’s more complicated than that. But this simulation doesn’t exist to reveal the nuances of youthful indiscretions. It’s here to create a synchronicity between two people, to make John comfortable within Albie’s mind, and, finally, to locate and remove the offending memories.
They were both, fleetingly, into this kiss, no one side more than the other, and then they moved on. If anything it made them better friends.
If that isn’t the truth, Albie figures, then it’s true enough.
“I don't think I've actually thanked you for doing this yet," Albie says.
“Of course I'm going to do this. As long as you're still sure.”
“I don't think I'll ever be totally sure. It's still bizarre to think about. Like you're basically cutting out chunks of my brain.”
“Maybe think about it more like — I don't know — those laser surgeries that fix your eyesight. Or curing a chronic illness. Something like that.”
“It's not a cure, John. It's like physical therapy for a broken bone that's never going to completely heal. The damage has been done. This just keeps it from getting worse.”
“The therapy helps though, right? I mean why else are we doing this?”
“It's intended to help at least.” Albie shrugs. “I'm a lab rat at the end of the day though. No matter how you slice it, I'm still asking you to fuck with my head in unpredictable ways.”
“Fuck with your head to make it better! Important distinction.”
Albie remembers freshman year move-in day. The smell of the dorm room, musty with summer disuse. Brown and orange leaves fluttering down outside the window. Chipped wood on the bed frames and desks. Songs popular at the time murmuring softly out of nearb dorm rooms. Fleeting friendships budding among neighbors, pleasant connections of convenience gently broken once these kids found others with whom they had more in common. A dresser drawer with broken rollers. Albie put in a work order to have it fixed, but it remained broken throughout the two semesters he and John spent together in that room.
Past-Albie is already in the room. Albie was an optimistic eighteen-year-old blissfully unaware how hard he'd take living away from home for the first time. John soon walks in, the twenty-year-old transfer student, self-assured to the point of over-confidence. John insists he was a bastard at the time. Albie remembers him as sweet.
“Sweet to you,” John reminds him.
They watch themselves shake hands, trade small talk. They discuss arranging the beds — John refused to do bunk beds out of a later-admitted paranoia of the top bunk collapsing. They unpack and settle on something semi-workable in the limited space.
“I thought this might be a little more poignant,” John says. “I didn't think we'd be so basic about it.”
“Yeah, this is actually kind of boring. But kind of cute in context, right?”
“I guess so. But what else have we got?”
Albie pauses the simulation. Their past-selves freeze. A menu projects in front of them, choices scrolling like a playlist.
Each option makes up a loose section of memory. The neurotechs, true to their background developing biofeedback-based virtual reality games, aren't the most organized people, and John and Albie can only imagine how complex it is to find order in the human mind anyway.
The effect, they explained, is something like Arthur Conan Doyle's attic metaphor. Only it’s more like an entire universe filled with furniture. And all they can do is list every article.
So Albie's memories are scattered all over the place. Biochemical markers give some indication of the nature of every loosely demarcated memory — happy, sad, scary, complicated, mundane — and those emotions move in distinct patterns throughout different eras of Albie’s life, which makes the general time frame easy to scan for. But it is all very loose, very experimental.
Albie is only able to pinpoint memories with John because happy memories stand out, and he was always happy with John.
John really took care of him back then.
They revisit countless nights watching TV shows on Albie's fifteen-inch laptop screen. The time they stayed up through the night trying to solve a five hundred-piece puzzle on John's bed because the desks were too small and it never occurred to them to use the floor. The time John stole a large bottle of German beer from the liquor store, only for it to slip out of his fingers and explode on the floor. The various impromptu dance parties and late night pizza runs.
The event itself took place on a night in December when John wasn't in town. John's senior year; Albie's junior. They had been roommates their whole run in college together. Albie took an off-campus apartment for his senior year after John was out of the picture. He didn't travel to campus except for classes or to print something off at the library. He became a recluse.
John thinks about how he should have been there for Albie more. Everything he did for that kid, everything he wanted to be for him, how protective he was — and he wasn’t there when Albie needed him most.
John can’t even remember where he was that weekend. Probably at a concert or something. Or in his hometown, back in his childhood bedroom, recovering from the constant pressure of campus living.
Tired, selfish, neurotic.
After all those years of regret, he jumped at the chance to help Albie. And now here he was at the offending memory.
John is surprised by how boring everything looks. He half expected flickering lights, dark shadows, blood dripping from the walls. Ordinary surroundings, however, are even weirder considering the usual flourishes in Albie’s memories. Nothing is exaggerated or vague like usual. Everything is crystal clear. This dorm hallway is exactly as it had been, every little detail.
John heard once that traumatic memories were like this: The bad moments stay exactly as they were. Like concrete in the mind.
The guy who did it to Albie was a mutual acquaintance. Fuck his name. The school let him stay on campus, of course. It was almost comical how predictable the outcome was. But the fact that it was so typical didn't make Albie feel any better.
John didn't believe Albie at first. He still hates himself for that. His skepticism didn't make sense either. Not in hindsight. He was so cynical about everything else, why wouldn't he have believed the worst here too? Only he didn't want to believe that someone he knew could do something so transparently evil. Didn't want to believe this sort of thing could happen to Albie either. Albie isn't supposed to have problems that John can’t help him handle.
John is getting nauseous, angry, scared. They warned him that simulations can cause such reactions. The feelings Albie was, is, about to go through on the other side of that door are seeping into John. He has to remind himself that these are like phantom pains — emotions long gone, processed and felt on a body and in a mind that are not even a part of him.
They had once been Albie's.
They are still Albie's.
John inhales deeply. He feels himself start to shake. He lets the air out.
He follows Albie’s ghost through the door and sees it happen.
He has to watch the whole thing. Has to watch to be sure exactly how much to remove. They told him that it isn’t healthy to cut out large chunks of memory. They told him to cut the precise amount necessary and no more.
Like editing a video, he repeats to himself. Like editing a video.
He watches till it is over. He feels his teeth clench, his nails dig into his palms, his eyes well up.
This isn't about you. You are a catalyst. You're here to make sure this never happened. Not to Albie.
He is alone. But he can do this.
Fuck that guy. Some people don't deserve to be remembered.
He makes the selection and, in a manner of speaking, tosses it in the trash. Just a swipe and the press of a button. It doesn’t feel strong enough.
Yes, confirm.
Yes, I am sure.
Albie stayed at a long-term treatment center ever since the experiment began. After John deletes the memory, Albie is moved to a recovery unit for monitoring. John signs a document guaranteeing that he will be Albie’s caretaker and observer for the next month. Which he is glad to do since he hasn't been allowed to see Albie since the last memory dive several days ago.
Albie seems fine. Happy, even.
“It's weird,” he says, as he leaves the hospital with John for a walk in nearby park. “The night is completely gone, but I still know the fact of it. It just feels like I wasn't actually there. Like I just read about it.”
“What about everything afterward?” John asks. He’s been thinking about this constantly. The act itself was only the start. In his spare time, John reads up on post-traumatic stress and how it permanently modifies brain tissue, how trauma permeates the brain. The neurotechs couldn’t remove the trauma without removing a whole lot more of what made Albie who he is.
“I've been talking about that with my therapist,” Albie says. “Like, I'm still not perfectly post-post-traumatic or whatever. I'm still me, bad experiences and all. But there's something going on in my brain. Like I'm undoing this enormous, tight knot.”
“Good. That's good, right?”
“I think so. You're supposed to see how or if my personality changes, right?”
“Yeah.”
“Well, keep me updated.”
Albie doesn’t recover quickly. He can’t carry a conversation to save his life for more than a couple minutes. Can’t focus enough to read or watch movies. Often John catches him simply staring into space, out the window, into a cup of tea. Physically, he is in good shape. The fatigue is purely mental and emotional. It still takes a full month for him to be present again.
Still, John notices him gaining his spirits throughout this one month period. Slight positive changes in Albie's demeanor. At a diner, for instance, while the two are at brunch, Albie speaks loudly and clearly to the waiter. Before, he tended to simply mumble and point at the menu. He even leans over and asks the folks at the table next to them if he can borrow their hot sauce.
At the same time though, John notices Albie withdrawing from him. Albie starts to shut down when John is around — a guilty, almost resentful look on his face. When his parents visit, he seems so much more animated. Albie doesn’t say anything, but the message is clear that something about John is bothering him. The neurotechs and the therapist and everyone else around Albie tell John that he’s doing fantastic, a wonderfully steady recovery. They are all looking forward to seeing the long term results.
John does not tell anyone about this change. It doesn’t seem relevant.
In truth, John and Albie had not stayed close since they graduated. They still considered each other friends, but they both knew it wasn't the same anymore. Even without all that had happened, something was different after college. They only hung out on occasion. Meeting by accident through parties hosted by mutual friends. Love still there, only muted, different. In the past.
John knows Albie picked him only because he needed somebody he was really close to during that specific time period. John doesn't feel exploited. Albie was his best friend for a certain amount of time, and then he wasn't. Not like they had a falling out. Friendships are put on pause sometimes due to circumstance and location. John understands that in a loose, theoretical way at least. It hurt to think about how distant they'd become though. No matter how much he acknowledges that it isn’t anyone's fault.
Eventually, Albie is released. John drives him home. He let his lease go right before the experiment began, so he’s back with his parents. Their place is in a comfortable little suburb right outside the city. A porch with rocking chairs. A front lawn garden. It takes about an hour to get there. They listen to the radio.
“Want me to walk you up?” John asks.
Albie shakes his head. His bag is on his lap. He taps his fingers on it.
“I’m fine. Thanks, John.”
“Of course. Text me how you’re doing?”
“Yeah. I’ll see you later.”
They give each other an awkward, one-armed, car seat hug. John tries to make eye contact with Albie for one last poignant moment before they split company for the first time in a long time, but Albie is already pushing the door open, making his way out.
John, feeling too many emotions to process, waits until his friend is safely inside the house before driving away.
Half a year later, John sees Albie at a mutual friend's party.
Albie seems like his old self again. Or maybe a new self. He’s reserved, but eager. He sticks to the guy he came in with like usual, but John sees him quickly loosen up and begin to talk to a group of people he’d just met. He used to be like that, apprehensive in social situations for the first half hour, before lightening up and realizing he wanted people to notice him. Once he found enough people he liked, all that anxiety melted away. John remembers being the person who Albie could cling to for comfort when everyone else seemed strange and unfamiliar. He remembers the joy of seeing Albie work his way into the good graces of a group of strangers.
The guy Albie came in with is attractive. John can’t remember the last time Albie had even gone out with someone. Another positive change. Hopefully.
It’s a relatively small apartment party. John keeps his distance, hanging out in the kitchen, talking to a guy in a red beanie who’s pontificating about college basketball, while most others are in the living room. He listens and nods at the right moments. He notices Albie from a few glances. John still has this protective attitude toward him.
Protective? No, possessive. He needs to learn to let that go.
The friendship is a sacrifice he'd willingly made.
John leaves the party early. Nothing dramatic. He usually does this to prepare for work early the next morning. His departure goes unnoticed by most of his friends. John with his shitty early morning gigs. Must be desperate for cash. Nobody knows he works these shifts, works them nearly every day, because he never got used to life after his weekends in Albie's memories. He needs something to fill the time or else he isn’t able to stop thinking about them. Those memories of memories.
He is almost at his car, parked on the curb just out of the light of a streetlamp, when he hears someone calling after him.
“Hey, wait up!”
He turns, and Albie is there half-smiling. It’s the type of smile you’d give to someone if you aren’t quite sure where you stand with them. A smile that acknowledges the weight of all the memories you hold together even if you aren’t certain they’re strong enough to prevent this from feeling weird.
John half-smiles back.
“Hi,” Albie says.
“Hey.”
“I didn't get much of a chance to catch up with you back there. How've you been?”
They maneuver their way through the uncertainty, chatting about work, health, dating. Easing into what they really want to ask. Albie and the guy he came in with are sort of been dating. Nothing too serious, Albie explains. Mostly friends, sometimes a little something extra. But always friends. He wasn't quite ready for anything serious yet, if at all.
Both appreciate how seamless the conversation feels. Like picking up an old thread.
John leans against his car and Albie joins him. They stare down at the curb.
“Thanks again for what you did,” Albie says. “I know I've said it, but I really appreciate it.”
"Don't mention it," John says, fiddling with the car keys in his pocket. His hands are a little shaky. He feels a lump in his throat.
Then he blurts it out: “I miss you.”
It throws Albie off for a second. He sees John turn red and look at the ground.
“Yeah,” Albie answers. “I miss you too.” He rests his hand on John's shoulder. “I'm sorry I haven't really talked to you since. It just felt like I needed time. But I'm sorry. You really did do a lot for me.”
“You know I was glad to,” John says. They stay quite a little while, but then he knows what he needs to ask: “Did… did it work?”
“You mean, am I cured?”
“Well, was it therapeutic?”
Albie looks up. It’s a question he’s thought about a lot.
“My brain has officially been fucked with in more ways than most people's ever will,” he explains. “But it's better, I think. I still have night terrors sometimes. The bad things that've happened to me are still a part of who I am, no matter how much we scrambled them. Honestly, I feel like going through the process with you helped just as much as the end goal. Remembering my life back then feels so much warmer now since we went over it. That night on the bridge, our first meeting, all our times together. They feel stronger in my memory now. They hold me together more than they did before.”
John nods, unsure of how to present the emotions he is currently juggling. He sort of wants to hug Albie.
“And what about you?” Albie asks after a while. “I mean... you had to see it in a way I never, technically, did.”
John shrugs.
“Honestly? I don't have the words to say how much going through those memories affected me. I'm still processing. But as for that last memory... I don't know. I can live with it.”
“I'm sorry,” Albie says.
“No, it's fine,” John shoots back quickly. “I don’t want to feel like you’re a burden. I look at it like this: You living with the experience and me living with the memory is better than you carrying it all on your own.”
Albie nods, leaning into John. Albie is slightly shorter, so his head rests neatly on John’s shoulder.
“I've been thinking lately,” Albie says. “I should have made more of an effort to stay friends after you graduated.”
“What? No, I should have,” John counters. “You were going through a lot and I wasn't really there for you. That was shitty of me.”
“Yeah, I won't pretend like I wasn't mad about that. Still, I thought we were stronger than that.”
“I mean,” John begins, then stumbles. “We can still hang out. If you want.”
Albie raises his head to look at John and doesn't answer until John looks back at him.
“Yeah,” Albie says with a full smile, “I think it's worth a shot.”
They find that there is nothing left to do but to get food somewhere and catch up. Albie goes back to the party to grab his friend, who he wants John to meet.
John’s hands are a little shaky. He pulls out his phone and practices deep breaths like the neurotechs taught him. He begins searching the internet for a restaurant open close by. He is tired and nervous and really can’t afford to lose sleep tonight. But regaining Albie in his life will be well worth the sacrifice.
Bryan Cebulski is an author of quiet queer fiction who currently lives in the woods of Northern California. His contemporary coming-of-age novel, It Helps with the Blues, was published in April 2022 by tRaum Books.