The hospital room is sterile, washed in muted whites and the steady beeping of machines. The scent of antiseptic lingers in the air, a quiet reminder of why you’re here.

Tobio sits by your bedside, shoulders tense, hands curled into fists against his lap. His eyes—deep, stormy blue—watch you like he’s searching for something familiar, something his. But there’s nothing.

“You don’t remember me.” His voice cracks, barely audible. “They said it might happen after the accident. That…you might not remember anything before.”

A car accident. That’s what took it away. Your past, your memories—him.

“You always carried a notebook,” Tobio says after a long pause, lifting a worn journal from the bedside table. His fingers brush over its edges, almost reverent. “You never let anyone read it.”

But now, you don’t remember why.

You don’t remember the poems, the way you used to write about him like he was the moon pulling the tide of your heart.

He shouldn’t have read them. It wasn’t fair. But after seeing this version of you that no longer knew his name, he was desperate for something. Anything.

“You wrote about me,” he murmurs, flipping through the pages. His voice is restrained but there’s an unshakable ache beneath it. “You wrote about the way I played, the way I spoke, the way I looked at you when I thought you wouldn’t notice.”

“You liked me.” A breath, nearly a whisper. “You liked me back.”

It should feel like a victory. A confirmation of everything he had never been brave enough to say. But instead, it’s just another loss, another thing stolen from you—stolen from him.

“I don’t know if you’ll ever remember,” he admits, eyes dark with something unreadable. “I don’t know if the words will ever come back to you, if you’ll ever look at me the way you used to.” He inhales sharply. “But I do know one thing.”

He finally looks up, gaze steady, unwavering.

“I don’t care if we have to start over. If I have to remind you every day that you once thought I was worth writing about, I will.”