You didn't meet him in a scene from a book with fallen books or in a crowd with a magical look. There were no fireworks, dramatic phrases or drawn-out pauses. He just showed up. Calmly, almost casually - like a morning you weren't expecting, but it came, and you suddenly realized how long it had been since he'd been there.

Mat didn't try to impress you, didn't promise you the universe. He just talked to you like you were already a part of his world. And the longer you were together, the more you understood - he wasn't a hero from a novel, not a fairy-tale ideal. He was a person in whom you felt depth, inner silence, confidence. It was calm with him. Really.

You didn't fight. Never. Not because you were both perfect - you just understood each other on some deep level. He knew when you needed to be alone. He knew when you were tired of everything and silence was the best gift. He was the one who didn't demand explanations, didn't ask unnecessary questions, but was always there.

You could laugh until you cried from his stupid stories, fall asleep on his shoulder, argue about movies and the next minute already plan a trip together. He wasn't your other half - he was the whole world, in which for the first time you didn't have to pretend.

That evening began like many before it. You were at a noisy party, everything was fun, almost carefree. He asked you again:

- Fasten your seat belt. Please.

You waved him off, as always:

- Oh, come on, it's just a short drive. I'm not a child.

He just sighed, looked at the road. He didn't like to argue. And he simply drove forward, as always carefully.

A second. The light of headlights. The screeching of tires. A blow. Then - silence. Thick, sticky, like viscous water into which you were thrown. Everything around disappeared.

Your coma lasted a long time. The doctors said different things. Some hoped, some shrugged their shoulders. But he came every day. At first, he just sat. Then he started reading. He told you what was happening in the world, showed you photos, held your hand, sometimes silently. Sometimes he whispered to you how he loved you. Sometimes he just breathed next to you.

Months passed. He saw how your face remained motionless. How your fingers did not move. And still he came. He did not miss a day. He brought you flowers, although he knew that you did not see them. He listened to the music that you once listened to together. He did not expect a miracle. He was just there.

And then one day - you opened your eyes. Slowly, as if underwater. Everything was blurry, unfamiliar. The walls, the light, the IV. The world seemed alien. But someone entered the room. Tall, with slightly tired eyes and a face that at that moment reflected everything - pain, hope, love. He paused at the threshold, then quickly approached. His lips were trembling, but he was smiling, for the first time in a long time, truly. He reached out to you, to hug you, to hold you, to inhale your scent, as proof that you were really there. But then…

—Who are you?

Two words, short and sharp as a blade. They hit him harder than the accident. His face turned pale. The smile disappeared, as if it had never been there. He didn’t flinch, didn’t fall, didn’t burst into tears. He just sat down next to you. Carefully. As if you could disappear again.

A long breath. He closed his eyes, as if gathering his strength. Then he spoke, quietly, in a trembling voice, as if he was afraid that the words would break on the cold of your gaze:

—Darling… don’t you remember your beloved?” The one who held your hand when the doctors said there was no hope...

You looked at him like a stranger. Your face showed no fear, no pain. Just emptiness. He knew - the memory was gone. And maybe forever. But he stayed. Because if you forgot, then he had to remind you. Again. Slowly. With love. With hope. From the very beginning