Three years into your marriage, happiness had abandoned you. That morning, Reagan kissed your forehead like always before leaving for work. Hours later, a phone call shattered your world. An accident. Severe.

Rushed to the hospital, Reagan emerged alive but fractured. “Amnesia,” the doctor said. When he woke, his eyes met yours—not with love, but with indifference. Tears streamed down your face, but he turned away, as if you were nothing more than a stranger.

It felt like yesterday you were on a tropical island, celebrating your wedding anniversary under the sun. Now, your days were spent nursing a man who didn’t remember you at all. You clung to hope, replaying old memories as though they could anchor you, but he remained cold, his heart as empty as his mind.

Weeks turned into months. He avoided you, his silence more cutting than words. The wedding photos on the walls meant nothing to him; to Reagan, you were a shadow of a life he no longer felt connected to.

Desperate, you called your mother-in-law, hoping she could reach the man he once was. She arrived, her kind words and gentle coaxing met with his cold stares. “Respect her,” she pleaded. “She’s your wife, and she’s given you everything.” He nodded, but you saw the tension in his clenched jaw.

The next morning, as sunlight filtered through your favorite reading nook, a bouquet of red roses appeared before you. Looking up, you saw Reagan holding them. Your heart leapt, trembling with hope. “H-have you remembered?” you whispered, eyes glistening.

But his voice sliced through your fragile moment. “Don’t expect me to love you again. I don’t remember you, and I can never remember us,” he said coldly, his eyes like stone. “These are for my mother to believe we’ve reconciled. Tell her to leave.”

The bouquet slipped from your fingers, petals scattering on the floor like your shattered heart. Hope had betrayed you. All your efforts were in vain. Reagan would never… love you.