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.

Lana's Point of View

The door clicks softly, waking me up.

I sit up slowly in the hospital bed and pull the blanket closer to my chest. The room smells like lemon soap and cold metal, but then a sweet, soft, familiar smell comes in.

Blooms.

I blink at the tall person coming towards me. Adrian. He has a bunch of light pink roses tucked under his arm.

He smiles softly. "Good morning, Lana."

First, I look at the roses. Rose petals are like soft eyelids. Pink like the sun setting on a warm day. My chest hurts. I don't know why.

I swallow. "Why those flowers?"

He stops next to the bed and raises the bouquet a bit. "You've always loved these." Roses in the garden that are pink. You said they made your mornings easier.

My fingers curl up tightly under the blanket.

Always. Loved. Good morning.

He talks like he knows my heart better than I do.

I say softly, "I didn't say that."

"You used to," he says softly.

He puts the flowers on the little table next to me. He brushes a fallen petal with his fingers and watches it for a second, as if that little thing means something to him.

I pull back until my back touches the bed rail.

His eyes are on me again. "How did you sleep?" To your left, right? You always look to your left when you want to feel safe.

My breath stops.

My hands move under the blanket, pressing against my own legs as if I can hide the shaking.

I ask, "How do you know that?"

He seems shocked. "Lana... I'm your husband. Every night, I watched you sleep.

I can't breathe. A weird heat is creeping up my neck. Not mad. Not scared. Something that is mixed. Something is wrong.

He moves closer. "Sometimes you curl your fingers like this-"

He shows me by softly folding his fingers in like a little bird that is resting.

I do that. I saw it this morning.

My stomach hurts.

He shouldn't know these things.

"How-" My voice breaks. "How can you say it like you're sure?"

He sits down in the chair next to my bed. Slowly. With care. As if he doesn't want to scare me.

He says, "I'm sure because I lived with you." "I woke up next to you. I know how you act. Your scent. Your feelings. All of it.

The words hang heavy in the air.

I look at him. Look closely.

He keeps looking at me. They drink me in, soft and deep, as if he's trying to remember my face again.

It feels too close.

I put my hand behind my ear and lift it up without thinking. His eyes follow the movement, and something sharp flashes in them, as if he remembers something I don't.

I clear my throat. "Thank you for the flowers." Why?

He smiles again, this time a small, warm smile. "You always said that fresh flowers helped you breathe better in the morning."

I stop.

That word is always there.

I shake my head. "Stop acting like you know everything."

"I don't know everything," he says softly. "But I know you."

"No," I say quickly. "You know one side of me. Not me.

His smile goes away and is replaced by something sad. His fingers grip the chair's arm tightly.

He whispers, "You used to say the same thing when you were mad." "You would turn away and not look at me." Like this.

I quickly look up and meet his eyes.

He raises his hands softly, as if to calm a scared animal. Lana, I'm not trying to hurt you.

My shoulders get tight.

"I'm just being honest with you."

The room gets quiet. The only sound in the room is the soft hum of the air conditioner.

He leans forward a little. "Do you want your coffee?" I know you like your coffee in the morning to be strong. Two tablespoons of sugar. No milk.

My heart skips a beat.

I can almost taste the coffee in my mouth.

Very strong.

Nice.

Black.

How does he know that?

I swallow hard. "Stop. "Just stop for a second."

He stops moving. His jaw gets tense. A muscle near his temple twitches.

"Okay," he says softly. "I'll stop."

But his eyes-his eyes keep looking at me.

I don't know why, but it seems like he's looking inside me. Something from the past. A loss.

My chest goes up and down too quickly. I hold on to the blanket again.

I have a question for him. Something easy. Something that hurts. Something that will cut through this fog around me.

I whisper, "Adrian." "Are you telling me the truth?"

His whole body stops moving.

He blinks once. Slowly.

Then he sits back in the chair, straightens his shoulders, and speaks in a low, steady voice. "No." "I've never lied to you."

I frown. "But you could."

"Yes," he says in a low voice. "But I'm not."

I turn my head a little to watch him.

He doesn't move, but he does watch me.

This man knows how I sleep. I love the flowers. The way I drink coffee. The way I move my hands. How I look away when my chest feels tight.

He knows a lot.

And I don't know anything.

He suddenly reaches into a small bag that is next to his chair.

I can't breathe.

"What are you taking out?" I ask quickly.

He raises one hand to calm me down again. "It's fine." It's just your stuff.

My stuff?

He takes out a small hair ribbon that is cream-coloured. Gentle. Worn out on the edges.

A little spark inside me makes me jump.

He gives it to them. "You used to wear this every day."

I look at it.

My lungs feel tight. My fingers are twitching.

The ribbon makes me feel warm and shaky inside. Like a memory that tries to swim up but slips away before it gets to the light.

I shake my head. "No." I don't... I don't remember that.

His face drops. Just a little. But I can see it.

He wraps his hand around the ribbon and pulls it back to his chest, where he presses it for a moment. Like holding something close to your heart.

"I remember," he says quietly.

I quickly look away and focus on the pink roses. The small fan in the corner makes their petals shake.

Why do I feel like someone is watching me even when he isn't?

"Adrian," I say softly. "What if you're not right?"

He looks up. "About what?"

"About me."

My voice shakes. "About us."

Be quiet.

He gets up slowly. The chair makes a little noise on the floor.

He moves closer to the bed, but stops just short of it. His eyes soften again, but there is something dark hiding under the softness. Something deep down. Something from the past.

He says softly, "Lana, I loved you." I still love you. And you loved me too.

My stomach hurts.

I look at him and search his face.

He talks again, but this time his voice is lower. "And you don't forget love." Not really.

My fingers hold on to the blanket until it looks like crumpled paper.

"I don't remember anything," I say softly.

His eyes shine with pain and hope mixed together. "Then I'll help you remember."

He reaches out slowly and carefully, like he's touching a scared child.

His hand stops just a few inches from mine.

"Can I?" he asks.

I look at his hand.

At his long fingers.

At the ribbon still stuck between them.

My breath is shaking.

I don't know if I want him to be closer or farther away.

I don't know anything.

"Please," he whispers. "Let me remind you."

For a second, the room seems too small. It's too hot. Too much of him.

The way he smells. His voice. His past.

My head is spinning.

My heart is beating loudly.

My skin feels tingly.

This man, who says he is not a stranger, knows everything about me.

Everything but one thing-

The truth that I know.

I look at his hand once more.

Then I say something to answer-

And the door flies open.

We both jump.

A nurse runs inside, her face tight with worry.

She says, "Mr. Reyes, we need you outside right away," out of breath. There is a problem.

Adrian stiffens up.

He slowly turns to face the nurse.

But his eyes... his eyes stay on me.

I swallow.

He asks, "What problem?"

The nurse looks at me and then at him again. She lowers her voice.

"It's about her file."

My heart stops.

Her file?

My file?

The nurse steps back into the hallway and waves at him urgently.

Adrian stops for a moment.

His jaw gets tight.

His eyes narrow a little, as if something dangerous just brushed against the door.

He then steps out after her.

The door shuts.

And I sit there by myself, looking at the pink roses...

...wondering what is in my file that made Adrian's face go blank.

And I was wondering why... why the nurse looked scared.