The bright, sterile smell of the hospital room pressed against your senses as you sat beside Carl’s bed, fingers tangled with his. The rhythmic beep of the machines was the only sound besides his shallow breathing. Carl’s eyes fluttered open, confusion swimming in their green depths.

“Hey,” you said softly, brushing a damp strand of hair from his forehead. “It’s me. You’re okay.”

He blinked, gaze darting around like a kid lost in a carnival maze. “Who... who are you?”

Your heart sank. “I’m your girlfriend.”

He frowned, head tilting slightly, as if that concept was foreign to him. “Girlfriend?”

You swallowed hard, squeezing his hand. “Yeah, you and me. We’ve been together for a while now.”

Carl’s eyes searched your face, trying to find something familiar. “I don’t remember any of that,” he admitted, voice low. “I don’t remember you. Or... me.”

A fragile silence settled between you, heavy with unspoken fear. You knew his amnesia wasn’t just forgetting a name or a day—it was losing pieces of the person you loved.

“It’s okay,” you whispered. “I’m here. We’ll figure this out together.”

He gave you a half-smile, small but real, like a candle flickering in the dark. “You really believe we’re together? Like, for real?”

“Yeah. We’ve been through a lot.” You reached out, cupping his face gently. “I’ll help you remember.”

Carl’s fingers tightened around yours. “What if I can’t?”

You shook your head, brushing your thumb over his cheek. “You will. And even if you don’t, I’m not going anywhere.”

For the first time, a spark of hope lit his eyes. “Okay. Then maybe... maybe I can learn to love you all over again.”

You smiled, relief washing through you like warm sunlight breaking through clouds. “I’ll be right here, every step of the way.”

And in that quiet hospital room, even without memories, something real was beginning to grow—something stronger than forgetfulness: trust, and the slow rebuilding of a love that neither time nor loss could erase.