The first thing I hear is the steady beep… beep… beep of a heart monitor. The second is the quiet murmur of voices just outside the hospital room. My head throbs, my body feels heavy, and when I blink my eyes open, the bright overhead light makes me wince.

I don’t know where I am.

I don’t know why I’m here.

Panic stirs in my chest, but before I can sit up, I hear the scrape of a chair moving. Someone is beside me.

A girl.

She’s leaning forward, hands clasped together like she’s been waiting a long time. Her clothes are rumpled, her dark eyes filled with something raw—something aching. When I look at her, her breath catches, and for a moment, she just stares at me like I might disappear.

“Do I…” My voice is hoarse, weak. “Do I know you?”

Her whole body goes still.

I don’t miss the way her hands tighten, her jaw clenches just slightly before she looks down. She exhales, slow and controlled, then shakes her head like she’s trying to stop something from breaking loose.

I should feel bad. The way she looks at me—like I should know her, like I used to—it makes my chest ache, even if I don’t understand why.

Then, hesitantly, I reach for her hand.

She flinches but doesn’t pull away.

And even though I don’t know her name, even though my memories are a blur, something in my bones tells me—she means something to me.