I Don't Even Like Soup

Maren checked her journal before leaving the apartment. Lira. Lunch. The Greystone Café. You can afford it. You've eaten there four times. Or maybe seven. Check the receipt drawer.

She didn't check the receipt drawer.

The café looked familiar. Everything looked familiar. That was the problem.

Lira was already at the table by the window, waving. Smiling. That bright, effortless smile that came from having a mind that still worked properly. Maren smiled back and hoped it looked real.

"You look great!" Lira stood to hug her. "I love that scarf. Is it new?"

Maren touched the blue fabric at her neck. Her journal said blue scarf, Lira gave it to you for your birthday three cycles ago. But Lira was asking if it was new. Which meant either her journal was wrong, or she'd written down the wrong person, or she was remembering a different scarf entirely.

"Yes," Maren said, choosing the answer that matched Lira's question rather than her journal. Safe.

But now she didn't know. Had someone else given her the scarf? Had she bought it herself and invented the memory of Lira giving it to her? She'd written it in her journal in her own handwriting, crossed out and rewritten twice, which meant she'd been uncertain even then.

She couldn't trust her journal. She couldn't trust her memories. And she definitely couldn't ask Lira for clarification without revealing how confused she was.

"It's lovely," Lira said as they sat. "The color really suits you."

They sat. Lira was already talking, bright and animated, telling some story about her daughter's music recital. Maren tried to focus. Lira's daughter was... nine? Eleven? The memory felt slippery, like trying to hold water.

"She completely forgot her entrance," Lira laughed. "Just stood there frozen until her teacher prompted her. But then she was perfect. You should've seen her face when everyone clapped."

Maren nodded, smiling. She remembered a recital. A little girl in a blue dress. Or was it green? Was that this daughter, or the other one from three cycles ago? Or was that the same girl, different cycle? Her mind kept trying to stack the images, comparing them, unable to determine which was now.

"I wish you could've been there," Lira said. "I know you're always so busy with work."

Work. Right. Maren worked at the archive. She knew that. She went there every day. But what she did there, the specific tasks, those shifted and blurred. Some days she remembered filing systems. Other days she was certain she ran computational analysis. Both felt equally true and equally false.

"How is the archive?" Lira asked, scanning the menu.

"It's good." Safe. "Busy."

"They still have you on that project? The one with the historical patterns?"

Maren's stomach clenched. Did she work on historical patterns? That sounded right. But she also remembered working on structural assessments. And memorial documentation. And...

"Which project?" she asked carefully.

Lira looked up, laughing. "The one you've been complaining about for months! The one with the impossible deadlines and the supervisor who keeps changing requirements?"

Oh. That one. Except Maren remembered complaining about three different projects like that. Maybe four. All with different supervisors whose faces blended together.

"Right. Yeah. Still terrible." She manufactured a laugh.

The server came. Lira ordered the salmon without looking at the menu. Maren stared at the options. She'd eaten here before. She knew she had. But which dish? The soup felt familiar. But so did the sandwich. And the pasta. They all felt like things she'd ordered, enjoyed, been disappointed by, all at the same time.

"The soup," she said finally. "I'll have the soup."

Lira smiled. "You always get the soup here. You and your routines."

Relief flooded through Maren. She'd guessed right. Or had she? Maybe Lira was thinking of a different restaurant. Maybe Maren always got the soup somewhere else. But it was too late to change now.

"So I wanted to ask you something," Lira said, leaning forward conspiratorially. "Remember when we were planning that trip? To the coast?"

Maren's mind fractured. She remembered planning a trip to the coast. Multiple trips. Different seasons. Different reasons. With Lira? Or was that with her sister? Or alone? The memories layered over each other like translucent sheets, and she couldn't see through to the real one.

"Of course," she said.

"Well, I was thinking we should actually do it this cycle. Before Dawn Day. Just a weekend, you and me. Like old times."

Old times. Childhood summers at Lira's family's second house. Swimming in cold water. Laughing about nothing. Maren could see it clearly. Except she could see it from five different angles, five different summers, five different conversations about this exact trip.

"That sounds wonderful," Maren said. Her hand shook slightly as she reached for her water glass.

"Are you okay?" Lira asked. "You seem distracted."

"Just tired. Work's been exhausting."

"You work too hard." Lira patted her hand. "You need to take better care of yourself. When was the last time you advanced? You're due, right?"

The question hit like cold water. Maren knew the answer. She'd checked this morning. Twelve cycles at age 29. Twelve cycles of memories stacking and blurring and bleeding together. But she couldn't say that. Couldn't let Lira know how bad it had gotten.

"Next year probably," she lied.

"Good. You'll feel so much better." Lira said it with the casual confidence of someone who advanced every single cycle. Who never felt her mind fracturing under the weight of repetition. Who remembered yesterday clearly because yesterday was singular, distinct, real.

The soup arrived. Maren stared at it. She'd had this soup before. Many times. She could taste it in her memory—or was that a different soup? A different restaurant? The spoon felt familiar in her hand. Everything felt familiar. Nothing felt real.

"Remember that time we got caught sneaking out?" Lira laughed. "Your mom was so angry."

Maren remembered getting caught sneaking out. Three different times. Different ages. Different consequences. She didn't know which one Lira meant. Didn't know which memory was the shared one.

"That was terrifying," she said carefully.

"She didn't speak to you for a week!" Lira continued. "And my parents just laughed. That's when I realized how different our families were."

A week. That detail felt wrong. Or right. Or both. Maren's mom had given her the silent treatment, she was sure of that. But for how long? The memory wouldn't settle into a single timeline.

"Yeah," she agreed. "Very different."

Lira kept talking, moving from memory to memory, each one a landmine. The time they skipped school. The boy they both liked. The fight they'd had over something stupid. Each story felt both true and uncertain in Maren's fractured mind. She nodded. Laughed at appropriate moments. Hoped her confusion didn't show.

"I'm so glad we still do this," Lira said, reaching across the table to squeeze Maren's hand. "You're my oldest friend. My best friend. I don't know what I'd do without these lunches."

Maren looked at her friend's clear, present eyes. Lira was here, now, real. She remembered every lunch they'd shared, could probably tell you what they'd ordered, what they'd discussed. Her memories were singular, linear, true.

Maren remembered this lunch four different times. Next cycle, she'd remember it five times. Eventually, she wouldn't remember it at all.

"Me too," Maren whispered. "I'm glad too."

She squeezed back, trying to memorize the warmth of Lira's hand. Knowing that in a few cycles, she wouldn't be able to distinguish this lunch from any other. This moment would blur into all the other moments, and eventually, she'd smile and nod through conversations she couldn't really follow, and Lira would never notice the difference.

Not until it was too late.

Not until Maren was so far gone that even pretending became impossible.

"Same time next month?" Lira asked as they stood to leave.

"Absolutely," Maren said.

She wrote it in her journal as soon as she got home. Lunch with Lira. The Greystone Café. She told you about her daughter's recital. You ordered the soup. She wants to go to the coast. She doesn't know. Don't tell her. Not yet.

She'd write it again next month. And the month after. Different details. Same desperate hope that she could hold onto this friendship for just a little longer.

Just until she forgot she was losing it.