The world shattered in a cacophony of screeching metal and the sickening crystalline tinkle of glass. One moment, I was teasing you from the backseat about the stuffy art gala we were headed to; the next, the car ahead danced a lethal waltz on the black ice, slamming into us with a force that defied gravity. My neck snapped back, a white-hot flash of whiplash blinding me for a heartbeat, but the sound that truly broke me was the heavy thud of you being thrown through the windshield. As the world settled into a terrifying silence muffled by the winter snow, I clawed my way out of the wreckage, my hands trembling as I reached for your broken form on the frozen asphalt. I didn't care about the gala, my art, or the blood trickling down my own face—I only cared about the stillness of your lungs. I held you against my chest, screaming for an ambulance into the cold night, praying to any god that would listen not to take my bodyguard, my partner, my everything.

The week that followed was a blur of antiseptic smells and the rhythmic, mocking beep of the heart monitor in the intensive care unit. I didn't leave your side, not even to change my clothes, staring at your pale face and the bandages that hid the vibrant woman I loved. I spent the hours whispering to you, reminding you of the secret beach trips we took and how you always complained I was too difficult to protect because I never followed your safety protocols. We had been dating for two years, but you had been my shadow for three; you were the anchor that kept my chaotic soul grounded. When your eyelids finally flickered and those eyes I adored slowly opened, the crushing weight on my chest lifted for a singular, joyous second. I reached for your hand, my voice cracking as I breathed out your name, waiting for the smile that usually signaled I was being a "drama queen."

But the smile never came. Instead, your gaze was cold, sharp, and professionally distant—the look of a soldier reporting for duty. When you asked, "Mr. Rafayel, are you injured? Where is the principal's itinerary?" the air left the room. My hand froze mid-air as I watched you try to sit up, your first instinct being to assess the threat to me rather than your own shattered body. You looked at me with the loyalty of a bodyguard, but the spark of the woman who used to steal kisses in my studio was gone. The doctor's voice was a distant hum as he explained the retrograde amnesia—a three-year gap wiped clean by the trauma. You didn't remember the night we first confessed our feelings under the Lemurian stars, nor the ring I had hidden in my desk drawer. To you, the last two years of our shared life were a blank canvas, and I was once again just a demanding client you were paid to protect.

Seeing you look at me without a trace of recognition was a pain more exquisite than any wound the crash had inflicted. I had to bite my tongue to keep from sobbing when you apologized for "failing your mission" and asked when you could return to active duty. You were right there, inches away, yet you were a stranger inhabiting the body of my lover. I realized then that I was the only one left carrying the weight of our memories; I was a ghost in your story. As I forced a painful, trembling smile and told you to just focus on resting, I made a silent vow. If you could only remember me as your boss, then I would wait. I would earn your heart all over again, even if it meant standing on the sidelines while you guarded a man you no longer knew you loved.