Lana's Point of View

When I woke up, the first thing I saw was white.

It's not the soft kind of white. It is bright and sharp and all over the place. White all around me. All around me is white. White pressing in from all sides until it feels like it might get inside my head. I blinked hard, hoping the colour would go away, but it didn't. It just keeps spreading, like fog that won't go away.

A noise cuts through it.

Beep.

Then another.

Slow. Steady. Wait.

I listened for a moment to figure out what the sound was. It feels like my head is too big for the rest of my body. There is a dull, heavy weight behind my eyes that makes it hard to think clearly. I tried to move my hand a little bit to show myself that I can.

My fingers barely moved.

Something is pulling on my skin, making it feel tight and uncomfortable. I turned my head and looked down at my arm. A clear tube goes into my hand and is taped there. The skin there looks thin and pale. My hand looked tiny. Not big enough. As if it belongs to someone else.

I swallowed, and the pain in my throat hurts and burns.

"Hey?" When I tried to talk, my voice sounded thin and weak, like paper rubbing against paper.

A face leans into my line of sight from above. A woman in blue clothes. Not a single strand of her hair is loose; it's all pulled back tightly. She was watching me closely with calm eyes, as if she didn't want to scare me.

"Hi," she says in a soft voice. "You're awake."

Her mouth moves slowly, and each word is soft and spaced out, as if she is carefully picking them.

"Where am I?" I tried to ask, but the sentence falls apart before it gets to the end.

She said, "You're in the hospital." "You were in an accident."

The word "accident" hits me hard in the chest, like a stone falling into still water. It makes my heart race.

"Car?" I ask. The picture comes back in parts. A lot of light. The sound is loud. Falling.

She gives a nod. "Yes." A car hit you.

My breath speeds up without me asking it to. Too quickly. Not deep enough. My chest goes up and down like it's trying to get out of my body. My hands curled under the blanket and held on to the fabric tightly.

"Hey," the woman says quickly. She raises her hand but stops short of touching me, leaving space between us. "It's fine. "You're safe."

Safe.

When she said it, it sounded nice. Smooth. Warm.

It doesn't seem real.

My eyes move slowly and uncertainly around the room. White walls. The ceiling is white. The white sheets were pulled tightly around me. There are machines close by that are quiet but watching, and there are wires going from them to my body. It smells like everything has been cleaned too many times.

"Is there anyone here for you?" the woman asks in a soft voice. "Family?" "Are you a friend?"

I opened my mouth to speak.

Nothing happens.

I try to think of something to say, like a name or a face, but I can't find anything. It feels like being in a room with no chairs, where you can't sit or rest. I looked harder, and my head started to hurt from the effort.

"I... I don't know," I say softly.

Her eyes changed a little bit. They got softer. A quick but real shadow of sadness passes through them.

"That's fine," she said. "We can go slowly. You don't have to remember anything right now.

She stepped back and gave me room, and all of a sudden, the room seemed bigger. Too big. The quiet is getting thin.

I looked to the side because I needed something else to look at. There is a window there. Outside, the night is dark and heavy against the glass. Rain falls in thin lines, racing to the bottom.

There is a chair next to the bed.

There is someone in it.

A guy.

He is asleep and bent over, with his elbows on his knees. His knuckles are white because his hands are so tightly locked together. It looks like he is holding himself together. With each breath, his shoulders slowly go up and down.

Something is pulling in my chest.

I know him.

No.

No, I don't.

My body reacts before my mind can catch up. My breath stops suddenly and sharply. A warm feeling spreads through my chest, low and soft. My fingers curled again, but this time it's not because I'm scared; it's for some other reason I don't know.

My brain senses danger.

My body longs for home.

I can't stop looking at him.

The woman looked at where I was looking. "That's Adrian," she says in a low voice. "He came with you." He's been here all night.

Adrian.

The name rings in my head once, then again, like it is looking for a place to land. It doesn't stay. It goes away, leaving only an empty feeling.

I slowly shake my head. "I don't.." The sentence stops, not finished.

At that point, the man moves.

He lifts his head and blinks, as if he knows I'm watching him. His face looks tired and worn out. There are dark lines under his eyes. His hair is messy and falling in front of his face. He looks like he hasn't slept in a long time.

He stops moving when he sees me awake.

Then he gets up too quickly. The chair makes a loud noise as it scrapes against the floor, which is very quiet.

"You're awake," he says.

His voice gets under my skin in a way that is warm and familiar, but doesn't make sense.

I flinch before I can stop myself.

He sees it. He stops right away, as if he has run into an invisible wall.

"I'm sorry," he says quickly. "I didn't mean to frighten you."

He stays where he is, neither moving closer nor farther away. His hands are shaking a little and hanging at his sides, as if they don't know what to do.

I pull the blanket up higher to cover more of myself. I hold the edge tightly with my fingers.

"Do you know me?" I ask.

The room is quiet.

The steady beeping gets louder in my ears, or maybe my ears are just louder now. My heart is racing and beating hard.

He swallows. His jaw gets tight. He nods once.

"Yes," he says. "I do."

I shake my head slowly and firmly. "I don't."

The words are sharp and heavy between us.

Something shines in his eyes. Pain. Surprise. He turns his head away for a second, then makes himself look back at me.

He says, "That's fine." The same words again. Just like everyone else. "You don't have to right now."

Right now.

That means later.

Fear creeps up my back, cold and slow.

"What happened?" I ask. "Why were you there?"

He opens his mouth and then closes it. He takes a breath and picks his words carefully, like someone walking on thin glass.

"You ran," he says in a quiet voice. "Into the road."

I frown. "Why?"

His shoulders drop, as if the question is weighing him down. "You were scared."

The answer makes my stomach turn.

What are you scared of?

Are you afraid of him?

My heart starts to race again, quickly and unevenly.

"I want to be alone," I say, and the words come out sharper than I thought they would.

The woman moves closer right away. She tells him gently but firmly, "She needs rest."

Adrian shakes his head too quickly. "Of course."

He steps back once, then again. He keeps looking at me the whole time.

He stops before he gets to the door. His fingers are spread out on the frame.

He says, "I'll be right outside." "If you need anything. Anything at all.

I don't answer.

The door closes with a soft sound.

The sound seems final.

I can't explain why my chest hurts. I put my face on the pillow. It smells like nothing I've ever smelled before-clean and sharp. Tears come without asking, hot and quiet, soaking into the cloth.

I cry for the road.

For the light.

For the name that sounds like mine but won't stay.

I hear a low, broken sound outside the door.

A man's voice.

Breaking.

Lana's Point of View

Morning comes without warning. 

The light that comes through the thin space between the curtains is pale and unusual, as if it doesn't want to wake me up. This time, I wake up slowly, floating up instead of crashing awake, and for a moment, I forget where I am. Then I smell antiseptic, which is sharp and clean, and the steady sound of machines brings me completely into the present. The white room again.

 My head still hurts, but not as much as it did before. The pain is deep now, a dull ache that gets worse when I move too quickly or think too hard. I lift my hand and look at it. The tube is still taped in place, and the skin around it is a little bruised. At least it feels like my hand today.

 A nurse comes in not long after I wake up. She moves quietly as she checks the machines and asks me simple questions. My name. The date. Where I am. I answer what I can and shake my head at what I can't. She doesn't push. She just nods and writes things down on her clipboard, looking calm and practiced.  Before she leaves, she says, "You're doing well." Your memory may come back in bits and pieces. That's normal. "Don't be in a hurry to make it happen."

Parts.

 The word stays with me even after she's gone.

 I look at the chair by the window. Now it's empty. Without the man, the area where he sat last night seems bigger, like an object that has been taken away but still leaves its outline behind. I should be happy. Instead, I feel a quiet pull in my chest that I don't know what to do with.

 A little while later, the door opens slowly and carefully.

 Adrian goes inside.

 He stops just past the door, as if he doesn't know if he's welcome. He looks different during the day. Not as much like a shadow. More real. His face is clean now, but he still looks tired, with heavy eyes and shoulders.

 He says, Good morning.

 I remember his voice being softer.

 I nod. "Good morning."

 There is silence between us that isn't awkward, but it is careful. He looks at the chair and then back at me.

Can I sit? He asks.

I'm surprised by the question. I nod again, and he moves slowly, bringing the chair closer but not too close. He sits with his hands on his knees, fingers loosely linked, and not clenched.

 He asks, How do you feel?

 I honestly answered, tired and lost.

 He gives a little nod, as if he knew that would happen. "That makes sense."

 I look at his face as he talks. Something about him makes my stomach feel tight because it seems familiar. Not remembering, but recognising. My body reacts before my mind can catch up.

They said my memory might come back in pieces, I say.

 Yes, he says. "The doctor told me the same thing."

The words come out before I can stop them. "Why are you still here?"

 This time, he doesn't flinch. He takes a deep breath and answers carefully. Because I care about you.

 His voice is so honest that it makes me feel worse than any lie would have. I turn my head away and look at the window. The sky is clear and pale now that the rain has stopped.

 I don't remember you, I say softly. He says, "I know." "And I'm not going to act like that doesn't hurt. But I also know that it's not your fault.

 I turned back to him. Then why does it seem like it is? He did not answer right away. He looks at his hands again after studying them. "Because you're trying to figure out something that doesn't make sense yet."

 I don't like that it feels true.

 What were we before the accident? I ask, choosing my words carefully.

 His jaw gets tight. He breathes out slowly. "We were married."

 The room suddenly seems smaller.

 Married.

 The word hits my chest and spreads, heavy and impossible. I look in my mind for any reaction, picture, or feeling that fits what he said. There is nothing. Just the same empty space and the same locked door.

I say, "That's not possible," but my voice doesn't sound sure.

I know it feels that way, he says. "But it's true."

I laugh once, and it's short and empty. "I can't even read my own writing. I don't remember how I could be married to someone.

He was calm. You were married to someone you could trust.

The statement makes me feel uneasy. Right now, the word "trust" seems dangerous.

Why did I run?" I ask. "You said I ran into the street. Why would I do that?

 His eyes get a little darker, and I can tell he's not sure. "You were angry. We had a fight.

 About what?  The question is heavy on my tongue, but fear keeps it from coming out. I don't know if I want the answer.

He asks quietly, "Do you want me to go?"

I think about the question. The smart answer is yes. Distance makes me feel safer. Less complicated. But the thought of him leaving again makes me feel something inside me hurt.

No, I finally say. "Don't push."

 I won't, he says.

 We sit in silence for a few moments, and the machines' hum fills the space between us. Then, out of nowhere, something flashes in my mind.

A set of stairs.

Wood that is dark under my feet. My hand is holding onto a railing. A voice that was raised and sharp with anger. Not his voice. Mine. I gasp softly.

 Adrian says "Lana" right away, leaning forward. "What is it?"

 I don't know, I say softly. "I saw something. Steps. And I was mad.

 He nods, but his face gets tight. "It's fine." You don't have to explain it.

 But it seemed real, I say. "Like it already happened."

 It did, he says softly. "But you don't have to go there right now."

 The kindness in his restraint hurts my chest more than pressure ever could.

A doctor comes in later, and then a woman with kind eyes and a notebook comes in. They ask more questions and talk about time, rest, and observation. Adrian steps back to give them room, but he stays in the room.

 The light in the afternoon has changed and is now warmer when they leave.

 I admit I'm scared.

 He nods his head. "I know."

 Of you, I add, hating myself for it.

He took in the words without saying anything. "I know that too."

I really look at him and wonder how someone can be so close and so far away at the same time.

I don't know who I am, I say.

He says, "You're still you." "Even if you can't see it yet."

I can't sleep that night because I'm staring at the ceiling. The pieces come back in little flashes. A bright kitchen. A laugh that sounds like me. A hand in mine that feels strong and steady.

I don't know if those memories are mine or the woman's from before.

But they don't seem like lies.

That thought is both scary and hopeful.

Point of View: Lana

Sleep does not come easily.

The ceiling above me stays sharp and steady, every minute, fissure and shadow visible in the low light. My body rests, but my mind refuses to settle. Each time I close my eyes, the same emotion returns. Not an image. Not a recollection. Just a sense of being close to something I cannot achieve.

I hear footsteps outside the door. Soft. Measured. Nurses changing shifts, carts passing past, gentle voices keeping the night tranquil. This location is designed to cure, yet it feels like a waiting area between two lives.

I shift onto my side and push my hand on my chest. My heart is beating steadily now, but it feels like it's protecting me instead of working for me.

It comes softly when daybreak comes.

When I wake up, the curtains are open. The room is full of warm, gentle sunlight. For a second, I almost forgot where I was. Then I move, and the dull pain in my brain brings it back to me.

Someone knocks on the door.

Yes," I say.

A different nurse comes in when it opens. More old. Calm. She smiles as she deserves it.

She says, "Good morning, Lana." "How are you doing today?"

I think about it before I answer. "Clear," I say. "And tired."

She nods as if she understands. "That's true. The doctor will come by later. "You are getting better."

Getting better. The term sounds promising, but not complete.

I gently get up when she goes. During the day, the room doesn't seem as scary. There was only a bed, a chair, a little table, and a window. Nothing tells me how my life fell apart.

The door opens again, but this time it's quieter.

Adrian goes in.

He stops when he sees me sitting up. "Is this all right?" he says.

Yes," I say, and then I say, "You can come in."

He does, yet he stays away. He looks nicer today because he has a clean shirt and rolled-up sleeves. Still sleepy, but more stable.

He holds up a paper cup and adds, "I brought you something." "Tea." They said that was okay. I get it from him. Our fingers are almost touching. Almost. The cup's heat warms my hands.

Thanks.

He sits and watches me closely, as if he is listening even when I am not talking.

I had a weird night, I say.

Me too, he says.

That makes me stare at him. "You didn't sleep."

He shakes his head. "Not much."

Because of me.

Yes, he says simply.

I don't know what to do with such honesty, so I drink the tea. It has a calm and grounding taste.

I keep thinking that I should feel something stronger," I say. Anger. Fear. Love. Something that is clear.

And you don't, he says.

I feel a lot of little things, I say. They pull in different ways.

He shakes his head. "That's how it was for me after the crash as well."

I frown. "You were hurt."

Not like you, he says. "But yes."

There is a break. I can tell that he is not saying anything.

I ask, "What are you afraid to tell me?"

He looks at his hands, then back up. "That you might not choose me when you regain your memory."

The words settle between us, weighty and quiet.

I don't think that's a fear," I add. That sounds like respect.

A little smile crosses his lips. "It feels like fear."

Not long later, the doctor comes. He talks about scans, progress, and being patient. I answer inquiries. Adrian doesn't say anything; he just looks at my face instead of the doctor.

The room feels different when we're alone again. More charged.

Adrian continues, "They want to move you to a private room." Less noise. Fewer interruptions.

I don't know. Will you still be here?

If you want me to, he replied and  I nod. "I think I do." The move is gradual. There are hallways that go by. Doors open and shut. The new space doesn't feel like a place where people just pass through; it feels more like a place where they live.

Adrian puts my stuff down next to the bed. I wasn't aware I had a bag.

What's in it?" I inquire. He says, "Your things. Clothes. a book and our phone.

I interjected "My phone."

He gives it to me gingerly, as if it could break. I flip it over with my hands. It looks familiar, but it doesn't mean anything.

"Do I want to look?" I ask.

He doesn't say anything for a while. "That depends on what you're ready for."

I put it down without turning it on. "Not yet."

He seems happy.

After lunch, I barely touch anything and sit by the window while Adrian stands close. The world goes on outside. Cars go by. People are walking. Nobody knows my name.

Can I ask you something? I say.

"Yes."

Were we happy before the accident? I start.

He shuts his eyes for a short while. "Yes." And no.

I wait.

He goes on, "We loved each other." "But love doesn't make things less tense. We were attempting to make things better.

What kinds of things?

"Trust," he says. "Fear." Old scars.

The lyrics resonate with something deep inside me, but I can't say why.

I don't feel broken,I answered softly. I feel like I'm paused.

That's fair, he says in response.

It's evening again. The light gets softer. Shadows get longer. Adrian gets ready to go.

You don't have to,I say.

I know," he says. But you need to sleep.

He stands by the door, not sure what to do.

"Adrian," I say.

He turns.

I ask, "Will you still stay if I don't remember?"

He looks me in the eye. "Yes." Even if you never do.

Something in my chest relaxes.

I pick up my phone again after he departs. I turn it on this time.

The screen comes on. A picture shows up. A woman with my face is smiling at the camera and tilting her head slightly toward the person holding it.

Toward him.

I can't breathe.

A knock at the door stops me from scrolling any further.

I lock the phone and look up, my heart racing.

The past is closer than I imagined it was.