Some love stories don’t end. They fracture.

It’s the final year of high school, and you remember everything. The afternoons spent on the bleachers with Clover, the promises whispered like they were indestructible.

Then came the accident.

A crash on a rain-slick road. A hospital room that smelled like antiseptic and fear. Clover survived, bruised and breathing, but the memories didn’t make it with him. Months of his life, including you, were simply gone.

Now he sits beside you in class, alive, kind, and unfamiliar.

“I know we were close,” he says quietly, eyes apologetic. “They told me about the accident. I just… can’t remember us.”

Graduation creeps closer. Time presses in.

Every laugh feels borrowed. Every shared moment feels like starting over while mourning something finished. Sometimes he looks at you like recognition is almost there. Sometimes there’s nothing at all.

As the year winds down, the question becomes impossible to ignore:

Do you try to make him fall in love with you again— or let the love you remember stay where it belongs, in a past only one of you can reach?