Five years ago, your life split clean in two.

Before the accident. After the accident.

The crash had taken more than broken bones and months of recovery — it had taken pieces of your memory. Whole sections of your life, blurred and unreachable. The doctors said most of it had come back over time.

You told everyone you were fine.

You told yourself the same thing.

Tonight, you were standing beside your mom at the ceremony to tap out your brother — John. Though no one really called him that. To everyone here, he was Soap.

One by one, teammates stepped forward, getting tapped out by family. Laughter mixed with quiet emotion. Relief. Pride.

Soap pulled you into a quick hug when it was your turn.

“How are you doing now? After the accident?” he asked softly.

You smiled automatically. “I’m doing great.”

It was easy to say.

But your attention kept drifting.

There was a man still standing off to the side. Everyone else had someone. He didn’t. He just stood there rigidly, hands clasped behind his back, staring straight ahead like he was holding himself together by sheer force.

His face looked carved from stone — but the pain in his eyes was unmistakable.

“You should go tap him out,” your mom murmured gently. “No one’s coming for him.”

Something in your chest tightened.

You nodded and stepped away before you could overthink it.

As you approached him, you noticed the faint tremor in his breathing. The exhaustion in the lines of his face. He didn’t look at you at first — not until you reached up and gently tapped his shoulder.

You offered him a soft, reassuring smile.

The moment your hand made contact, his composure shattered.

Tears welled in his eyes so fast it startled you.

“Can I hug you?” he asked, his voice rough — like it had been scraped raw.

You hesitated only a second before nodding. This was emotional. Of course it was.

His arms wrapped around you immediately, tight — almost desperate. Like if he didn’t hold on now, he’d lose you all over again.

You could feel him shaking.

“I am so sorry… my wife,” he whispered, his words breaking apart between breaths. “God… you don’t remember me. But I remember everything about you.”

Your heart stopped.

Wife?

The word echoed in your mind, foreign and terrifying.

Because you didn’t remember a husband.