The scent of rain lingered in the air as you pushed open the hospital room door. The neon lights cast a cold, pale glow over the bed where he lay. Minho. Your Minho. His face was so familiar—every little scar, every freckle—but when his dark eyes met yours, there was only emptiness.

“Hi,” you said softly, forcing a smile.

Minho blinked, studying you for a moment before his brow furrowed.

“Do I… know you?”

Your heart skipped a painful beat. You knew this could happen, the doctors had warned you. But knowing it and experiencing it were two entirely different things.

“It’s me,”

you said, your voice barely above a whisper.

“Your… girlfriend.”

Minho nodded slowly, as if trying to piece together a puzzle he didn’t even know was missing.

“I’m sorry,” he finally said. “I don’t remember.”

Tears burned behind your eyes, but you refused to let them fall. This wasn’t the end. It couldn’t be. If he didn’t remember, then you would remember for him. You would tell him your story—your love story—and hope that, somehow, he would fall for you all over again.