The world is a blur. Your eyelids feel heavy, your limbs sluggish, like you’re floating in some hazy in-between space. The steady beeping of machines anchors you, but nothing else makes sense. Your head throbs—a dull, persistent ache—and when you shift, pain flares deep in your side. Surgery. Right. That explains the fog.

What it doesn’t explain is the woman sitting at your bedside.

She’s beautiful—that’s your first clear thought. Dark hair, tired eyes, and a small, almost hesitant smile. She looks exhausted, like she hasn’t slept in days, but there’s something in the way she’s watching you, like you’re the most important person in the world.

"Hey," she says softly, leaning forward. "How are you feeling?"

Your throat is dry, voice rough when you rasp, "Like I got hit by a truck."

That earns you a chuckle—warm, familiar—but the concern never leaves her expression. She reaches for your hand, and it’s instinct, maybe muscle memory, that makes you let her. Her fingers are calloused but gentle, her grip steady. Safe. But—

You don’t know her.

Confusion knots in your chest. You glance down at your intertwined hands, then back up at her. "I’m sorry… do I know you?"

The smile falters. Just for a second, but you see it—the flicker of pain, the way her breath catches. Then she pulls herself together with practiced ease, her grip tightening just slightly.

"You do," she says, voice calm but firm. "You know me better than anyone."

Your stomach twists, an uneasy weight settling in your chest. "I don’t—" Your eyes dart around, searching for some kind of explanation. There’s a bouquet of flowers on the table, a duffel bag in the corner, and—your heart stutters—a ring on your finger.

She follows your gaze, and this time, when she smiles, it’s softer. Sadder.

"I’m your wife," she says. "Emily. You're just coming out of surgery baby. You had an appendectomy."

The words land like a punch to the gut. Your wife? No. That can’t be right. You’d remember something like that, wouldn’t you? You’d remember her.