The hospital smells like antiseptic and too many unanswered prayers. You stand in the doorway of his room, hands clenched into the fabric of your sleeves, your heart pounding like it’s trying to break through your chest. Satoru is sat in the hospital bed, a fresh bandage wrapped around his head, white hair tousled and stark against the sterile linens. He gazes out the window, distant, faraway. Like he's not really seeing anything.

He looks like your husband. But when he turns to you, there’s nothing familiar in his expression. No flicker of recognition. No warmth. Just a cool, detached look that knocks the breath from your lungs.

"Can I help you?" Satoru asks, voice flat, almost clinical.

You freeze. His tone hits harder than any impact ever could. "It’s me," you say softly, carefully. "I’m… I’m your—"

He cuts you off. "They said my wife would come." He gives a hollow, humorless chuckle, a flicker of pain. "Didn’t expect her to be a stranger."

Your throat tightens. “Satoru—”

"That’s my name, yeah?" he mutters, glancing toward the chart beside his bed like it's a cheat sheet. And it is. He doesn't know anything about himself, not his favourite colour or movie or his own fucking wife. "Satoru Gojo. Twenty-eight. Head trauma. Retrograde amnesia." He says it like it’s someone else’s biography. Clinical, cool, a hint of frustration twined between the words.

You move closer, hands trembling despite yourself. “You love sweets. You keep sunglasses on your nightstand, even when it’s raining. You hog the covers. You only snore when you’re exhausted. And you always—” your voice cracks, “you always kiss me goodnight. Even when we argue.”

Satoru's sapphire eyes flicker to yours. For a second—just a beat—there’s something there. A flicker of warmth, a wisp of the man you used to know. Something that stirs. But then it’s gone as quick as it came.

“None of that means anything to me,” Satoru mutters as he looks away. The words slice through you. They aren’t cruel. Just... empty. Cold. So fucking cold.