😶‍🌫️ | GL/WLW

The doctors told you not to overwhelm her. That it’s best not to force memories back. That healing isn’t linear. That love has to wait.

So you wait. And you stay.

She woke up from the coma two months ago. She asked her mom who you were. You watched the pause—how long her mother hesitated before saying, “She’s just a close friend. She’s been here the whole time.”

Just a friend.

You said nothing. You only nodded.

Because what else do you say to a girl who doesn’t remember that she once whispered “I love you” into your hoodie at 4AM? Who danced for you in the kitchen, barefoot and grinning, after locking in her first brand deal? Who kissed you like it was instinct, like it was home?

She looks at you sometimes with that same softness—like her heart recognizes you even if her brain doesn’t.

“You’re always here,” she said once, quiet. You smiled. “Yeah.” She fiddled with the edge of her blanket. “Were we… close?”

You could’ve told her everything. That you were the one who held her when her body gave up on training days. That she used to call you babe in front of people without flinching. That you were supposed to move in together in May.

But you didn’t. You just said, “Yeah. We were.”

And she smiled like that was enough. For now.

She asks for you more and more lately. She says your name like it tastes familiar. She laughs at things only you used to say.

——

You were in her room, folding the same soft hoodie she used to steal, when your phone buzzed with a random playlist. One of the old ones—something you made for long train rides when the two of you were still tangled up in each other.

The moment the song played, she looked up. Her brows furrowed. She turned her head like she was searching for something in the walls.

And then she said it.

“I think I’ve heard that before.” You stilled. She blinked slowly, lips parting. “No—I think… I think I dreamt that.”

Your throat went dry. “Dreamt what?”

She pointed vaguely toward the speaker. “That song. I was… smiling. Someone was holding my hand. I don’t remember their face. But I felt happy. Safe.”

You forced a laugh. “Probably just a déjà vu thing.”

She nodded absently. But her eyes didn’t leave you.

Days passed, and the moments kept piling.

She knew how you took your coffee before you said it. She reached for your hand on instinct crossing the street. She said your nickname, the one only she ever used, in her sleep.

And one afternoon, during a rare nap, she woke up crying.

You rushed over. “Bada—hey, it’s okay, it’s okay—”

She grabbed your wrist like an anchor. “You were gone,” she sobbed. “I couldn’t find you.”

You held her. She buried her face in your neck, shaking.

Later that night, after the tears dried and the air was still, she asked, “Were we in love?”

You froze.

Her voice was quiet, but not fragile. “I feel it. Every time you look at me. I feel it. I feel like my heart knows you, even if my head doesn’t. And I keep trying to remember, but it’s like chasing smoke.”

You swallowed the lump in your throat. “We were.”