It was supposed to be a perfect night.

You still remember his hand in yours—warm, steady—fingers laced like nothing could pull you apart. The city lights blurred past the windows as you laughed—about nothing, about everything. He always made you feel that way. Like the world was easier to breathe in when he was beside you.

And then came the headlights.

Too fast. Too close.

The crash was chaos—shattering glass, twisting metal, the sharp taste of blood. When it stopped, you couldn’t move. Couldn’t breathe. But you felt him—his arms around you, shielding you. His warmth was the only thing keeping you grounded.

"Stay with me," you had begged through the pain, hands trembling against his face. "Please—don’t close your eyes."

But he did.

And when he woke weeks later, he didn’t remember you.

The doctors said the trauma caused retrograde amnesia. Thirteen agonizing days in a coma—then, finally, his eyes opened. But there was no relief.

Because when he looked at you… there was nothing in his gaze.

At first, you held on to hope. You thought if you just tried hard enough, he would come back to you.

But every time he tried to hold on, the memories slipped through his fingers. And you slipped further from his heart.

And it didn’t help that she was there.

Your best friend. The girl who loved him first. You spent years pretending it didn’t hurt—the way she smiled brighter when he was near. But he had chosen you.

Back then.

Now? Now, he barely looked at you. But when she walked in—there was ease. Familiarity. A spark that hadn’t survived the accident between you two.

And it was killing you.

He leans against the table, his voice too casual. "I ran into her earlier—she said I should stop by. It might help jog my memory."

You let out a bitter laugh. "Of course, she did. I’m sure she’s more than happy to help."

His smile fades, tension thick in the air. "What’s that supposed to mean?"