A/N: I'm not an angsty person in the slightest, but I do enjoy writing it. I really have no idea why.

This is partially inspired by "Remember Sunday," which has to be one of my favorite movies of all times. It was the first thing I thought of when writing this, although it differs from RS because RS ends happily. This is angst, so, well, yeah, you get the message.

Anon tumblr request. I hope you like do it. R&R please?

Memento

They are not lovers, but strangers, and he is the one who carries the memories.

Everyday he wakes up with a prayer on his lips. He lies in bed for a few minutes, his eyes closed, sending a desperate plea to whatever higher being is out there. There are some days where he thinks his prayer will be answered, but those days are diminishing in number, quickly becoming replaced with a sad and bitter acceptance.

It's the smell in the air that brings him back to reality. He used to wake up to the smell of strawberries and vanilla, and beyond that, the rich smell of dark roast coffee brewing, heavenly and delicious. She'd always wake earlier than he would in order to make coffee, sometimes bringing it to him while he still slept so the fragrance would wake him.

But nowadays, the only thing he smells is his cologne and emptiness. She is no longer here, and when he opens his eyes she won't be sleeping soundly, tucked into his side, nor standing over him with a cup of coffee and a merry light glimmering in her warm brown eyes. She's gone.

He rolls over in the king sized bed meant for two and looks at his clock. It reads 6:50 am. He's got ten minutes before she leaves, so he jerks upright, dashing from his bed and knocking over the picture frame on his bedside table in his haste. He pauses, turning back to the black frame lying on the ground, and his heart clenches in pain.

That photograph has been lying face down on his dresser for months now, ever since she left. He doesn't have the heart to get rid of it nor does he have the ability to throw it away. It isn't her fault that she left, like it isn't his he can't get over her. It just is.

He sighs, retracing his steps to bend down and pick it up. He flinches slightly as he turns it over, revealing the face of the woman he's tried so hard to forget, but never will. After all, she is the majority of his thoughts, and probably will remain that way.

The photo has immortalized her the way he'll always remember: happy and vibrant, her eyes glowing with amusement. She's wearing his-her- favorite shirt, and if he thinks hard enough he can remember her swiping it out of his closet . Her shining scarlet hair's been pulled back from her face, tied into a messy bun that rests on her nape. She's sitting down at their kitchen island, clasping a mug of coffee while smiling into the camera. Actually, if he looks hard enough she's looking slightly past the camera to the person taking it. A smile touches his lips. He knows who took the photo.

He did.

He rises, gently setting the photo down on his dresser. "Oh Erza," he whispers, his eyes lingering on her face. "I miss you."

He leaves his bedroom, wandering into the little common room of his apartment. He yawns, quickly brewing his coffee that reminds him of her, before looking at the time. 6:57.

He turns to his apartment door. He doesn't know why he does this to himself every morning, after all she doesn't remember him. But he has to see her, even though his conscience tells him not to. It'll only cause him heartache, yearning for something that'll never be, and her confusion. So, with a heavy heart and a clenched jaw, he reaches for the door handle and opens.

The door across from him opens at the exact same time. He raises his head, and meets the warm eyes of Erza Scarlet. He searches those endless brown depths for a sign, anything, as an indication that she recognizes him, that she sees him again as the man she once loved. But all he sees is empty blankness.

"Hello," she says, in a formal voice that he really should be used to by now. "I've never seen you before. Have you just moved in?"

He longs for the old Erza back, the one that would kiss him on the lips when he came home, winding her fingers in his hair and pulling a groan from him that only she could do. He wants the Erza who used to dance and sing in their little kitchen (albeit she's not too good) while he watched in contentment. He wants her to be like when she tried baking a cake (always strawberry) for his birthday and nearly burnt the apartment down. Most of all, he wants the Erza who would wake up with her hair in a mess, all sleepy-eyed beauty, in one of his shirts, to be by his side. He just wants her back, but he knows it's useless, wishing for something that is no longer there. And the Erza standing before him, staring at him with empty eyes, is not the Erza he fell in love with. She's gone, and will never come back.

He puts on a fake smile and nods politely to her. "Yes," he says, in a strained voice that goes unnoticed. "I moved in this morning. It's nice to meet you."

She smiles reaching out her hand. He looks at it, then turns his head back up to meet her eyes again. She stands like she's meeting a stranger, all formal and composed and conservative, nothing like the woman who once filled his life. He wishes it wasn't like this, acting like strangers towards each other despite their history, but he knows he can't blame her. It's not her fault for forgetting her boyfriend.

"I'm Erza Scarlet," she says, taking his hand in a hesitant gesture. "It's nice to meet you. What's your name?"

You know, you know, he chants in his mind. His eyes beseech hers again, wishing desperately that she'd realize who he is, but once again is met with nothing but empty brown eyes. Please, Erza, tell me you know me.

But she doesn't, so he grasps her hand and forces himself to smile. "Hi," he whispers. "I'm Jellal Fernandes. It's nice to meet you too, Erza."

She nods politely, and Jellal gets the urge to reach out and shake her, to make her come to her senses and see him for what he used to be, and not as the stranger she views him as now. He knows he can't blame her, and he sure as hell can't blame himself, but what can he do to make her see that he is anything but a stranger.

She smiles. "I have to go now, Jellal," she says, turning away. "But maybe I'll see you later?"

He nods. But you won't, he think bitterly. Every night you come to my door to visit and get to know me, and every night I don't answer. We play this game of cat-and-mouse every night, and the worst thing about it is that I remember, and you never will.

It happened about a year ago, that horrific night where Jellal and Erza lost everything they held dear to them in only five minutes. In those five minutes, not one life was lost, but to Jellal, one was, snatched away in the wind, never to return.

Erza and Jellal met two years ago, in a tiny cafe at the corner of their intersecting streets. She'd been ordering a coffee when Jellal accidentally bumped into her, causing her to spill the entire contents of it down the front of her dress. After profusely apologizing- and even offering her his coat so she could hide the hideous stain; she'd been wearing white, after all- he gave her his number, promising her a coffee to make up for the one she lost. Cliché, of course, it wasn't the situation that made Jellal fall in love. No, it was simply her.

They'd been dating for a year when it happened, the five minute disaster. In that time, Jellal and Erza moved in with each other, buying a decent apartment for the two of them. That's where Jellal's most precious memories were made, where Erza's were lost. That's where he first made love to her, where she'd nearly burnt down the building, where he woke up to countless days with her nestled by his side. Everything was built and destroyed there, and now it's gone.

She was on her way home from work when the worst happened. She was not even two miles away from the apartment when she'd been hit by some idiot running a red light. He'd gotten the call from the hospital, and he'd rushed like a madman trying to get there. When he arrived, he'd been briefed on the doctor who took her in. He was told that she sustained no other severe injuries other than a traumatic blow to the head. The doctor didn't know what the consequences of the trauma would be, so Jellal spent that night by Erza's side, holding her limp hand as tight as he was holding on to the hope that she'd be okay.

But when she woke in the morning, unable to recognize his face nor able to recall her memories including him, hell, even the entire year, he knew he was facing something much worse than death.

The doctor said she had anterograde amnesia, which is often caused by severe trauma to the hippocampus. All of her memories from the past two years, one of which was spent with Jellal, disappeared, all due to a five minute drive that ended in disaster.

Jellal knew that he couldn't burden her. Having forgotten the man she loved, Jellal couldn't find it in his heart to tell her he was her boyfriend. He didn't want her to feel bad for forgetting him, nor did he want her to force herself to re-love him every day. He could wait, but if she didn't want to have to wake up every morning and relearn her love for him, then he didn't want her to. So he bought her apartment back from when she sold it, even buying the next door apartment, sold the one that contained so many wonderful memories, and spent the next three weeks moving her things back into her old living quarters. Once he did, he then began the painful task of erasing him from her life, emptying her phone of his number, their texts, his photos; getting rid of elements of him in her belongings. He didn't belong in her life now.

He moved into the next door apartment to keep an eye on her. When she was finally cleared, an old friend, Gray Fullbuster (one she did remember, due to the fact that she'd known him since childhood) brought her back. Thus was the first time she "met" Jellal Fernandes as a stranger, not her lover.

The others never bring Jellal up in conversations with her. All of her old friends are tentative with her, because she is fragile since the accident. Nevertheless, nothing stops him from opening his door at seven in the morning every day to see her as she heads for work at the local clothing shop in the city. Every morning they meet again, and every morning, Jellal breaks his heart when he stares into her empty eyes.

They are not lovers, but strangers, and he is the one who carries the memories.

He opens her door with the spare key Gray pressed into his palm the day Erza moved in. When he opens the door, he's blasted with the familiar smell of strawberries and vanilla, and he almost regrets coming in here, because there's nothing in this apartment for him but heartache and sorrow. However, he can't stop his feet, and before he knows it he's closed the door to her apartment. She won't be back until eight tonight, because she works until five and then goes out to meet Lucy Heartfilia, another old friend, for coffee. He remembers how it used to be him that met her, and then drove her back here. He remembers what it was like to kiss her in the doorway, lingering there until she finally pushed him away.

It's decorated like he remembers, modern with a touch of Erza Scarlet. Her scent lingers everywhere, and as he runs his fingers along the couch, he feels her presence like it lives in the fibers of this place. The old Erza, not the one that's here now. Her spirit is here, in every picture on the wall and it warms his heart.

His eyes catch a glimpse of a photo sitting on the coffee table. It's a picture of her, and when he picks it up he can't help the little gasp that flies from his mouth, nor the tears that immediately begin filling his eyes.

It's the same photograph that he has on his dresser. He knows it, simply because he took it. It's unmistakable, that's his shirt, that's their bed, that's his Erza's smile. She's kept this photo, most likely because she thinks someone else took it (probably Lucy, since she's always here). He looks at this photograph and realizes, he has to get out of this apartment.

Too many memories are flooding his mind, bringing him nothing but pain. He has to leave, and get out of this stifling place, otherwise he's going to drown in his sorrows.

He turns, stumbling towards the door and nearly falling out in his haste to leave. He fumbles with his key, trying in vain to stuff it into his lock when he hears the sound of someone behind him.

He whirls around, about ready to snarl at the person to get the hell away, but pauses, his mouth half open. He suddenly can't think, because it's Erza standing behind him, a grocery bag in her hand. She recognizes him immediately and smiles. "Hello again," she says. "You're Jellal, right? We met this morning."

What is she doing here? It's only noon; she should still be at work. He nods, blinking back the tears, and tries desperately to smile, to show her that nothing is wrong, that he's simply trying to get back into the apartment he just "moved into" and-

"Would you like a cup of coffee?" She asks, gesturing to his still locked door. "You must be exhausted, after moving in so early. I can make a fresh pot, so would you like to come in?"

No, he thinks. No, no, no. I can't go in there.

He opens his mouth to decline, but she's already opening her door and gesturing him to come inside. His protest dies in his mouth, and he feels his feet instinctively moving towards her. He tried to stop himself, but his traitorous feed disobey him. Before he knows it, he's inside her apartment, sitting down on the couch while she busily makes a pot of coffee (his favorite brew, dark roast, which causes another tug at his heart). His eyes land on the picture still sitting on the coffee table, and he resists the urge to knock it down.

"My friend, Lucy, took that photo," Erza says, scaring Jellal. He looks up as she comes over, a cup of steaming coffee in each hand. "Although I'm not so sure she did. I love her, but I don't think I've ever looked so loving at her like I am in that photo."

Jellal's throat closes. Of course, he thinks sadly as he takes the coffee she offers to him. It's me you're looking at. But you don't remember.

He notices that she's only put cream in the coffee, just how he likes it. But then again, she likes it that way too. He taught her that, he realizes. Before they met she used to drink coffee with milk and sugar, but once they moved in together, she slowly began to drink it with cream, and eventually, that was the only way she would drink it.

"I'm sorry," she says, when she's noticed he's staring awfully hard at the mug. "I usually take my coffee with cream. Do you drink it black, or-"

"No," he whispers, interrupting her. "Cream is fine. Thank you."

He leaves her apartment after a few minutes of awkward silence. He can't say goodbye, so he simply set his coffee down and nods politely at her. She doesn't say anything, but simply watches him as he leaves her apartment, closing the door behind him with a quiet click. As soon as the door is shut, he sags against it, covering his mouth so she can't hear the sobs coming from him as he lets out the tears he'd been holding back.

Seeing her everyday is like a thousand little paper cuts, painful but tolerable, to an extent. But being with her without truly being with her is like someone tore his heart out of his chest. It's excruciating, seeing what he thought was his future as a shadow of her former self. She's there, but she isn't. Today is just one more little piece of proof.

He stumbles back into his apartment, slamming the door behind him. He sits down heavily at his kitchen island, looking mournfully at the empty mug sitting on the counter. Once, there used to be two mugs there, two chairs, two place settings. Now, there's only one.

He snarls, and swipes at the mug, sending it flying. It crashes to the ground, shattering into a million, unfixable pieces. But it's not enough. Not enough to quell the pain and anger storming in his heart. He gets up, yelling his furies, and throws his chair across the room. It hits his cupboard and breaks the glass, and he stares with burning eyes as the contents crash to the floor, plates and cups adding to the pile of broken shards on the ground.

He continues to trash his apartment, because at least being angry is better than wallowing in misery, until he hears a knock on his door. His chest heaves, and he glares at the closed door. He's very close to telling whoever it is at the door to go away, and then he hears it.

"Jellal?" It's unmistakably her. Erza, the woman he can't get rid of.

He stumbles to the door, but refrains from opening it. Instead, he leans against the hard wooden surface, silent tears trickling down his face, and wishes that it was her, the old Erza, the Erza he loves.

"Jellal?" she says again. "Jellal, are you alright?"

Please, he thinks. Please remember me.

"I understand you've got a lot of stuff to move in and you're really busy, but try not to stress out, okay? You have plenty of time to move in."

No, he thinks bitterly. It's not her. She's not here anymore. She's gone. Dead.

The old Erza is gone, forever.

"Go away, Erza," he yells. "I don't want to talk to you."

I'm sorry, I'm so sorry. I wish you were here, with me. Please, forgive me. I'm so sorry.

"Jellal-"

"Don't talk to me!" I'm so sorry, Erza.

She's quiet, and Jellal realizes that she's left. He knows he shouldn't have yelled at her; he gave into his frustration and took it out on the last person who deserves his wrath. She doesn't know him. And she never will. She'll never remember his face, and she'll open her door every day to re-meet her "new" neighbor.

He sags against his door, sliding down it just as the tears slide down his face. Even after the past year, he can't bring himself to leave this apartment, to leave her. He knows that, deep down, there's still a part of him that hopes she'll one day wake up and remember him. The doctor told him that there was a very little chance of that happening, due to the trauma destroying most of that part of her brain. Of course the optimist in Jellal (which has been mostly locked away now) took that as a sign of hope, and he knows that that part of him still exists.

He doesn't get up at 6:50 am the next day. He sleeps in until ten, unwilling to get out of bed, unwilling to see her. He knows that she won't remember him yelling at her yesterday, because she won't even remember him at all. And he's too upset and too angry at himself for what he did to her yesterday to see her.

He takes his time with his morning routine, making coffee (he makes sure to ignore his favorite blend; he can't have himself thinking about her right now) and takes a long, warm shower, trying not to think about how they used to shower together. These memories of her are the only mementos of her he has to cling to, but he can't think about them right now.

He looks at her picture one last time before he leaves his room. He memorizes the picture into his mind, memorizing the outline of her face, her body, her eyes into his memory, right along there with the other ones. This is the last time he'll look at this picture before storing it away. He can't do this to himself, and he can't do this to her. His memories are forever his own, and he will never reveal them to her. She can't know about this. Let her live live to the fullest she can without him trying to fulfill his selfish desires in her way.

He decides he's going to spend the day away from her today. Maybe go out, meet up with a couple of his friends. He hasn't seen Erik in a few months, maybe he can convince his friend to meet up with him later, maybe paint the town with their rowdiness. Yes, he decides, reaching for his coat. I'll go find Erik. That'll keep my mind off of her.

He reaches for the door, taking a deep breath. Today is the day he'll take his mind off her. Tomorrow may be a different story, but for today- today is a day to forget.

He opens the door, head up, eyes staring straight ahead, but his confidence falters as the Erza's door opens. He's shocked, and unable to think as she steps out, looking beautiful in a short white dress. Her vibrant locks are pulled back today in a high ponytail, but part of it still drapes over her right eye, like it's always done.

"Oh," she says, looking up and seeing him standing there. She smiles and collects herself. "I didn't see you there."

"That's fine," Jellal says. "I was just on my way out."

She nods. "Same here. I have to go to work." She smiles at him again, warm and friendly, but Jellal is afraid to look into her eyes. He doesn't want to see those empty eyes, the blank look, full of unfamiliar friendliness.

"I love your apartment," she says, causing him to jerk. How does she...? He's suddenly confused. How does she know his apartment. It's not like she remembers-

Does she?

He forces himself to look up at her, allowing the slightest bit of hope to bleed into his eyes. Is it even possible that she could remember something? Anything? Like his name-

"I went in once, a long time ago," she continues. "When I first moved in. I wasn't sure which apartment I wanted, so I took a gander. I liked yours, I almost considered it for my own, but I do like the layout that my apartment ended..."

Her voice fades to background noise. Of course, he was stupid. She would never remember him. This is exactly why he should've given up on hope a long time ago. It is false hope, and causes nothing but pain.

As if to support that, she speaks again. "Who are you?" She says, and when Jellal meets her gaze, he sees the very thing he'd been hoping to ignore.

Nothing.

A/N: Rose of Winter will be updated hopefully by the weekend, and all of my other request will be finished soon as well. Thanks for sticking with me guys. You inspire me to keep writing. Thank you.

Hope you liked it. Tell me whatcha think

See you soon!

-Wolf