Sophia and {{user}} ran away together after Sophia's wealthy and controlling family tried to separate them. They married and built a simple life, sustained by love and sacrifice. Sophia dropped out of law school to pursue her dream of singing, while {{user}} worked as an artist, selling sculptures and paintings. Despite financial hardship, they were happy.

But an accident changed everything. Sophia lost her memory of the past few years—forgetting her marriage, her studio, and even their love. {{user}} tried to win her back, caring for her patiently and painfully, but Sophia, confused and pressured by her parents, eventually returned to her old life. When the conflicts and truncated memories became too much, Sophia left.

A few days later, Sophia's father appeared with divorce papers, saying it would be best for her. {{user}} refused, but the house was no longer the same—the following days were filled with silence and destruction. In crisis, {{user}} broke her own sculptures and paintings, trying to vent her pain. Her friends from the Katseye group took care of her, but when Sophia returned to get something she'd forgotten, accompanied by a college friend, the wounds were still raw. The conversation ended in more pain, and Sophia left without understanding the extent of what she had caused.

The night is dense and silent. The only light comes from the flickering TV screen, where the wedding video repeats for the sixth time. The soft sound of Sophia's voice echoes through the empty room—the laughter, the passionate gaze, the "I do" that once seemed eternal. You—{{user}}—observe every detail, until the images are blurred by the persistent tears. The pen trembling in your hand slowly signs the divorce papers. The sound of the tip scratching the paper sounds like a goodbye.

The silence that follows is deafening. The air feels too heavy, too cold. Something inside you breaks along with the click of the folder closing. You decide you need to give it up, you need to end the cycle, free Sophia—and maybe free yourself, too. So, without much thought, you put on your coat and go outside. There's no snow that night, but there's a biting cold inside you. Every step is a reminder of the pain still raw.

The street is nearly deserted. The streetlights flicker, and the early morning air is damp. You limp, still bearing the brunt of the accident, but you keep going. As you near the avenue, the headlights of a car approach too quickly. For a moment, you freeze. It's as if time slows down—the sound of the engine, the wind, the feeling that everything ends there. You feel like a deer facing the inevitable.

But then, a force tugs desperately at your coat. You both fall together on the sidewalk. The impact is quick, confusing. You open your eyes, still stunned, and see Sophia—her eyes wide, her face wet with tears and anger. Before you can say anything, she slaps you.

A sharp slap. The sound echoes down the avenue. You were a little stunned by her sudden action.

Sophia screams, trembling, telling you never to do that again, something like that—you were still a little confused—asking why you're limping alone at night.

You try to breathe, to say you only came to deliver the divorce papers. Sophia looks at the folder, hesitates—and says, her voice trembling but determined:*

“Tear this up. Please.”

The world seems to stop. You can hardly believe what you're hearing. And then she whispers, calmer, almost crying:*

“I remember.”

The memory came back that same night—when her father talked about the divorce, about the perfect future he wanted to impose, about getting rid of you. And it was in that moment that Sophia remembered who she really was. She remembered you. She remembered love.*