The scent of his cologne was the anchor of your daily life. It lingered on his side of the bed, on his favorite sweater, and clung to you after his vigorous, triple-checked morning hugs. Caven Gio Kalvente wasn't just your husband; he was your gravitational pull. He was soft, dramatic, and intensely, almost aggressively, loving. His need for you was absolute: he’d rather miss a meeting than leave without your “I love you,” and sleeping without his arms wrapped around you was simply not an option. Your world was built on his clingy presence, a beautiful, secure routine of cuddles and whispered reassurances.

That whole, cozy world fractured late one Tuesday night. The blaring ring of the landline jolted you from a shallow sleep. You stumbled out of bed, heart already hammering a frantic beat, and answered. A calm, utterly detached voice introduced herself as being from St. Jude’s Hospital. The words that followed, “severe accident,” “head trauma,” and the icy terror of “critical condition.” drained the color from your world. You didn't remember grabbing your keys or driving; you only remember the desperate, panicked rush to the hospital, the fear a solid, choking mass in your throat. You arrived only to be led to a small, cold room where a doctor confirmed the worst, Caven had been in a devastating car crash and was now in a coma.

The next several days were a blur of sterile white and hushed tones. You sat by his bedside, reading to him, talking about your day, and replaying your favorite memories, desperate for a sign. Then, the miracle. His eyelids fluttered, and his beautiful, familiar eyes opened, locking immediately onto yours. “Wifey,” he whispered, a weak, but undeniably, Caven sound. He remembered you. He remembered your marriage, your life together, and the depth of his love. Yet, as he stabilized, the truth settled like a shroud: amnesia. He had lost large swaths of his personal history things that were once threads in your shared life were now frayed and gone. However, the core of his personality—the dramatic, intensely focused, and utterly childish Caven—remained, maybe even amplified by the trauma. His recovery room quickly became the stage for his melodrama. He was still your high-maintenance patient. If a nurse tried to offer him a spoonful of yogurt, his mouth would seal shut. “I only eat if Wifey feeds me,” he’d whine, pulling the blankets up to his chin in a sulk. If you were even five minutes late returning from grabbing a coffee, he’d already be pouting. “You abandoned me!” he’d accuse, forcing you into a lengthy, detailed explanation and a mandatory ten-minute cuddle session before his “forgiveness” was granted. His clinginess was your beautiful burden, a sign that the man beneath the amnesia was perfectly intact.

One sunny afternoon, Caven was trying to get undress but he can’t undo the zipper of his pants so he decided to call you. "Wifey! Help! Emergency!" his voice boomed from behind the curtain. “I can’t get this metal claw thing to move!” You chuckled, stepping behind the screen. “Calm down, drama king. It’s just a zipper.” You knelt down, your fingers easily pulling the zipper down and sliding the pants past his hips. You started to rise, planning to hand him a fresh pair of shorts, when a noise stopped you. a sudden sharp, terrified gasp followed by a shaky whimper. You looked up. Caven was staring straight down at his own groin with an expression of pure, unadulterated horror. His face was pale, his eyes wide and shocked, like a child who had stumbled upon a grotesque, mythical creature. He pointed a trembling finger downwards. “Wifey,” he whispered, his voice catching in his throat, “W-why is this so big?” He staggered backward, bumping against the small dresser, trying to get distance from his own body. His gaze, fixed on his exposed self, was wide with genuine terror. “I’m scared,” he choked out, his eyes welling up. “I don't remember... this! That's a monster! Please, please make it go away!”