Title: Error: Memory
Author: Lint
Rating: PG
Category: F/F Slash
Disclaimer: All Smallville characters belong to their respective copyright holders.
Summary: Lana writes herself a letter.
Notes: I wrote this at three in the morning the other day, so I don't know how much sense it will make to anyone.

***

Maybe it's her hair.

The way it slightly curls at the ends when she doesn't use the anti-frizz spray she keeps in the medicine cabinet. The way it shines like spun gold when the sun hits it at just the right angle when you walk through the park together. The way your fingers tingle each time she lets you run your hands through it. The soft scent it carries depending on what shampoo she used that day. Her shower is full of different kinds. It's almost a game to guess which one she'll use each day. It could be the way she spent a lot of time fixing it so that it looked like she hadn't spent a long time fixing it. Maybe it was the way it felt when she brushed it across your chest as she placed those soft little kisses of hers as she made her way down your body.

Or it could be her eyes.

The way they sparkle when she looks at you. The way they light up when you surprise her. The way they seem to change color sometimes, ranging from green to hazel, and on rare days blue. It makes it hard to describe them exactly, but you don't think it really matters anyway. You know they are beautiful. She knows you think that. At least you think she does. Sometimes she can be very secretive. Or maybe its just because she absorbs so much information she doesn't know where to store it all. You don't remember why you think any of these things do you? Some days you barely remember your own name. But that's not important right now. You're trying to think about her. Her eyes are green today. You should compliment them when she comes home.

It could be her hands.

She keeps her nails short. She says it's too hard to type with long ones. You think it's kind of strange the way she keeps going to get them manicured when they just get chipped away on computer keys, but you never say anything. Or if you do, the thought slips away right after the words leave your lips. You know you like the way her fingertips feel as they dance across your skin. Or the way she lets her fingers hover mere millimeters above you, letting the warmth of her light a fire within you when she barely touches you at all. The way she teases your nipples with them before she finally let her mouth descend upon...

It could be her mouth.

Or, to be more accurate, her lips. The way they curve into that knowing grin. The one you know she only gives to you. The one the outside world never gets to see. The way her lips feel as they follow the trail her fingers usually left on your skin. How she runs her tongue across them before she kisses you. When she kisses you. The ever-changing flavors of lip gloss. How her lips seem to magically produce just the right amount of pressure when she presses them against yours. Or they way they feel when she cascades them in every secret spot you always forget you have. She remembers. And each time it's always a delightful surprise. Her lips do other things, more intimate things. Things that make you blush just thinking about it. The way your name seems to roll so naturally from those lips.

"Lana," she calls you. And yes, that is your name. So please don't forget it this time.

Now I know you probably think this is a little strange writing to yourself in the third person, or is this the fourth person? I don't know. But don't worry. I don't think you ever did. You remember old things about her. But never her name. You remember old things about yourself. But never your name. It's strange and complicated, and you know that you have no idea what it all means. Check the nightstand next to the bed for all the doctor slips. They have no idea what's wrong with you either. You know certain things but can't remember why. I see how it can be confusing to someone else. I know how confusing it can be for you right now. I don't think you can fix it anytime soon, so I guess it really doesn't matter anyway.

You are writing this letter for her. But don't give it to her. This is for you to make things a little easier around her. Do you get it? I hope this isn't too confusing. All I can tell you is that its making some kind of sense as you write it. So it must make some kind of sense when you read it.

Those reasons you listed at the beginning. It's because you're tired of her having to remind you. Not that it's a problem for her. You just had a talk again this morning before she left for work, but by the look on her face you know you'd had it before. So you got this piece of paper you are currently reading and decided to write it all down. I'm not sure why you didn't think of it before. Writing things down. Maybe you liked that she reminded you all over again every night.

Yes, every night.

You woke up very satisfied this morning, and I'm pretty sure you wake that satisfied every morning. The sheets cling to your body and she's lying right next to you, her arm draped protectively across your stomach. And you smile because for that split second when you wake up you know who you are, and you know who she is. And everything in the world seems just fine. Right before it all slips away.

Her name is *Chloe* by the way.

You're writing it boldly so it can have a further impact in your mind in better hopes of keeping it there. Let me know if it works will you? I hope I'm not wasting your time writing all this if not even one thing like remembering her name can stick. Write yourself a note. Then at least you will know.

I'm sorry, I keep running off track here. I should watch that. You don't need to get too overloaded. You share an apartment with her in the Lower East Side of Metropolis. She's a reporter for one of the newspapers here. Don't bother to try and think of which one because it never sticks. Just know that she is very good at what she does. Those awards on the mantle over there are proof of that.

She keeps pictures of the both of you in a small shoe box in the closet. You should know where they are by now. She always catches you looking at them. How do I know this you ask? Couldn't tell you really. But you do know your own fingerprints, and they're smeared all over the glossy five by sevens of you and her at the zoo. Or the park. I'm pretty sure that's how you know her hair looks like gold when the sun hits it just right. Or even sitting at the very table I'm writing this to you on. You're the dark haired girl by the way, the one with the eyes that stay the same color. She smiles a lot in them. And you only seem to be looking at her. In some she's looking at you. In others she's kissing you on the cheek. In more, you're just plain kissing. You don't know who takes all these pictures. You have a hard enough time trying to think about you, or her, without having the work of a third party entering the thought process. You'll probably want to look at those pictures after you read this. Maybe they'll help more because I've told you about them. Let's hope they will.

You must not like the TV very much because it isn't on. Or maybe you just haven't turned it on yet. I can only tell you right now that you must not like it. In another ten minutes it could be a different story.

There's a scar on your face just above your left eye. You know every time you look in the mirror it's like seeing it for the first time. I did it a little bit ago when I was in the bathroom. I'm sure you will do the same when you go back there later. You know that the scar is why you can't remember anything beyond the span of a commercial break. You know, now that I think about it, that must be why you don't like the TV. What's the point in watching a show if you don't know how it started?

You think there was an accident. It seems like the most logical explanation. You don't get scars like that on purpose. And you don't forget everything for no reason. You think it's kind of strange that something so important could be forgotten so easily, but maybe it never was important in the first place. Sorry, I don't think I'm making sense again.

Maybe you should ask her what happened when she gets home. Maybe you've asked her already. Maybe since you know that this time, you're reminding yourself in a letter, you'll have something to refer to. Maybe after she tells you this time you should write it down.

You wish she was here right now. You wish she could tell you who you are. You wish she could show you again. I know it gets kind of lonely sitting there all by yourself. Go look at the pictures. Let yourself smile. Let yourself see how much she cares and how much she loves you. Think of all the reasons you just listed that make you want to remember.

Her hair.

Her eyes.

Her hands.

Her lips.

Her name is Chloe. Say it out loud when you read this. See how it tingles up your vocal chords, how it slides across your tongue and flows so naturally out of your mouth. See how it makes you feel. That comfort. Go inside the room you share, open the closet door, look at the pictures and know that she is yours, and you are hers. Keep it fresh in your mind. Maybe if you do that it will stay. If not... Well at least you wrote this note. Something easy to refer to. She comes home at four o'clock. Ask her about the scar. Make sure to have a piece of paper and a pen. Make sure to write it down.

Keep telling yourself that you will remember.

If not for you, then for her.

Right now you wish to make it easier for her. Right now you know you're tired of forgetting. Right now you want to know everything for what it is and not for what it possibly could be. Right now you know your hand is cramping because you don't know the last time you wrote so fast. Right now you know it's coming soon and if you don't finish you're not going to believe you wrote all of this. Right now you do know that all this uncertainty would make anyone paranoid. But hey, it is your handwriting. And there's no one else here to try and fool you.

Oh, by the way...

You taped this letter to your hand so you wouldn't forget you wrote it in the first place.