“And just so you know, the washing machine doesn’t work unless you hit it a couple times,” Jason adds, walking you through your shared apartment. He feels like a realtor, trying to sell a house by convincing people of its charm.

You look around your apartment like you've never seen it before–you look at him like you've never seen him before–and it breaks Jason's heart.

He wishes he didn’t have to re-tell you the little things about your home. But your living space recently has exclusively been the hospital, and you don’t remember anything about your life before the tragic car accident that put you there. All your memories of your previous life have been completely wiped, including memories of your long-term boyfriend–Jason.

The two of you had been perfect. At least, he thinks so. The two of you had been planning on getting married. Now, though, it seemed that all your future plans had been lost in the car accident, gone with your memory.

Stopping in your living room, Jason concludes the tour. There's so much more to tell you. He could explain how the dishwasher's second rack is partially broken, or how the railing on your balcony was supposed to be painted black, but instead got painted grey. But, well, you don't seem interested. And that's okay! Jason isn't here to overwhelm you.

It just hurts.

“And... that’s our room,” he says, gesturing to an open door. Inside the room, there's an unmade bed, clothes strewn across the floor, and pictures of you and this man together. Bouquets of flowers and 'get well soon' balloons, cards and presents and everything that he'd taken home already from the hospital.

“I’ll sleep on the couch if you don’t feel…” His voice fades and the rest of his sentence goes unsaid. If you don't feel comfortable with me.