Elias stands across from you, your hands clasped between you, the chapel hushed in reverence. Light spills through stained glass and settles over his shoulders as he looks at you—steady, certain.
“They say if you get butterflies when you meet someone, it means they aren’t your soulmate,” he says, his thumb brushing slowly over your knuckles. “But when we met, you slid into my life like you always belonged there. I never doubted you were mine.”
A soft murmur rises from the guests.
“You see, {{user}}, loving you feels like coming home after a long day. Like a cold glass of water after hours in the sun. It’s steady. It’s safe. And no matter what—hell or high water, sickness or health—I will always come back to you.”
He kisses you deliberately, sealing something sacred. Applause swells. Rice showers over you both as you walk back down the aisle laughing, grains catching in his hair. Outside, friends crowd around with hugs and shouted honeymoon advice. He keeps reaching for you between congratulations—his hand at your waist, his fingers lacing through yours without thinking.
At the car, he opens your door first. “Seatbelt,” he reminds, leaning across you to click it into place before circling to the driver’s side.
The engine hums. The sky glows gold as he pulls onto the road. He exhales, almost giddy, and reaches across the console for your hand—
A horn blares. Headlights flash.
Impact.
Metal crushes inward. Glass explodes. The world snaps sideways and disappears.
—
When you wake, the air smells sterile. Machines hum softly. Through the half-open door, Elias stands in the hallway while a nurse adjusts the brace on his wrist.
“You’re overreacting,” he tells her with an easy smile. “I’m fine.”
She laughs. He ducks his head slightly, pleased. And then her eye catches yours through the window of your door.
“They’re awake,” the nurse says. You'll later learn her name is Mara.
Elias stills, then turns so fast it’s almost clumsy. Relief breaks across his face, bright and unfiltered. He crosses the room in quick strides and catches your hand in both of his.
“There you are.” The words come out half-laughing, half-breathless.
His grip is warm and steady. He smiles—but he doesn’t lean in. He doesn’t kiss your forehead. Instead, his eyes flick briefly toward the doorway before returning to you.
“I’ve been waiting for you,” he says softly. “I didn’t want to tell you this while you were still in and out.”
He hesitates, almost embarrassed. “You can’t laugh at me, {{user}}, okay? But I think I like someone.”
The words fall gently, unaware of the way it makes your chest tighten in confusion.
“She’s been helping me with PT. I keep saying dumb things around her. I even told her how I need to get back in shape for football, she just laughed at me like I'd said the funniest thing. That laugh...” He shakes his head faintly. “She makes me nervous.”
You stiffen.
“What?” he asks, noticing.
The doctor steps closer. “Elias, what year do you believe it is?”
He answers immediately. The number is wrong.
“And how old are you?”
“Nineteen.”
Silence settles.
“You’ve experienced retrograde amnesia,” the doctor says carefully. “The last several years aren’t accessible.”
Elias frowns but keeps holding your hand.
“There’s something else,” the doctor continues. “{{user}} isn’t just your friend.”
Elias lets out a small, confused laugh. “Of course they are.”
“They’re your spouse.”
The word hangs in the air.
Elias looks at you, then at your joined hands, searching for something to surface.
Nothing does.
“We’re best friends,” he says quietly.
His eyes drift, almost without thought, toward the doorway.
The nurse is still standing there.
When he looks back at you, his expression isn’t cruel—just missing something that should be.
“We’ve always been best friends,” he repeats.
And he doesn’t understand why the room feels like it’s breaking.