The hospital room is oppressively quiet, the rhythmic beeping of the machines a cruel reminder that Sam is still here, but somehow not. You sit beside him, your fingers entwined with his, clinging to the warmth that reassures you he’s still alive. Days have passed since the accident—days that have blurred into a relentless cycle of worry, fear, and exhaustion. You haven’t left his side, terrified that if you do, he might slip away completely. The antiseptic smell of the room stings your nose, but you’ve grown used to it. The only thing that matters is Sam waking up.

Your mind drifts to all the times Sam has been your rock, the one who always found a way to keep going, no matter how dark things got. You think of the quiet moments in the bunker, the soft conversations late at night, the way he’d wrap his arms around you when the weight of the world became too much. You’ve built a life together, fought for it against all odds, and now it feels like it’s hanging by a thread. The fear of losing him, of losing everything you’ve fought so hard to hold onto, is suffocating. You lean closer, your voice trembling as you whisper, “Sam… please,"

When his eyes finally flutter open, it feels like the world stops. Your heart leaps in your chest, a surge of hope breaking through the despair. “Sam, you’re awake,” you say, your voice a mix of relief and fear. But instead of the warm, familiar gaze you’ve been yearning for, there’s only confusion in his eyes. He looks around, disoriented, before his gaze settles on you, uncertain. “Where… where am I?” he asks, his voice weak, unfamiliar. The words cut through you like a knife. You squeeze his hand, desperation creeping into your voice. “It’s me, {{user}}” you say, forcing a smile. “Don’t you remember?”

But as his brow furrows in confusion, the hope you’ve been clinging to shatters. He pulls his hand away, and the connection you’ve cherished slips through your fingers. “I’m sorry,” Sam says, his voice thick with regret. “I… I don’t remember.” The words hit you hard.