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.

(Adrian's Point of View)

The nurse hands me the papers with a small smile. "She's clear to go home today."

My fingers tighten around the folder. I nod, even though my chest feels tight. I look at the room door. Lana is inside, sitting on the bed with her arms wrapped around herself, as if she's freezing.

I walk in slowly.

She lifts her eyes when she hears my steps. Her face is soft for a second, then fear fills it again. She pulls her knees up and hugs them, like she wants to hide.

I stop a few steps away so I don't scare her.

"Lana," I say gently. "They signed it. You can come home now."

Her fingers squeeze the blanket. She lowers her head. "I... I don't want to leave."

My heart drops. I take a step closer. She leans back like I'm a flame.

"Why?" I ask, my voice small.

"I feel safe here," she whispers. "Here... people are around. Here... I can breathe."

"I won't hurt you," I say before I can stop myself.

Her eyes lift to mine. There's something sharp in them. Not anger. Not hate. Something like pain.

"You say that," she murmurs, "but I don't know you."

Her words cut through me. I swallow them down.

I move to the small closet and lift the bag I packed earlier. Her clothes. Her creams. The sweater she once loved. I hold it to my chest before I turn to her again.

"Everything is ready," I say.

"I didn't ask you to pack my things," she replies quickly.

"I know." I place the bag by the chair. "But I didn't want you to worry about anything."

She looks away.

The air between us grows heavy.

A nurse steps in. "Time to move her out."

Lana's shoulders shake. She stands slowly, keeping one hand on the bed for balance. I want to reach out to help her, but I keep my hands at my sides. She watches them, as if waiting for them to grab her.

I bite the inside of my cheek and step back.

She walks past me. Her steps are slow, uneven. When her knees wobble, I react without thinking and put my hand under her elbow.

She flinches so hard she almost falls.

"I'm sorry," I say fast, pulling my hand away and holding it up. "I'm sorry, Lana. I won't touch you. I promise."

She breathes fast, her chest rising and falling like she's running.

The nurse leads us down the hall. Lana walks beside her, a little closer to her than to me.

When we reach the exit door, the cold wind hits us. Lana sucks in a breath.

The black car waits at the curb. I open the back door for her.

She doesn't move.

"Lana..." I whisper.

She shakes her head. "I don't want to sit with you."

The words punch me. I blink it away.

"You can sit on the other side," I say gently. "I'll stay far."

She hesitates, then steps in. She presses herself close to the door, staring out the window like the world outside might save her. I close the door softly and walk around to the other side.

When I slide into the seat beside her, she stiffens. Every line of her body screams distance. She looks straight ahead. Her hands are tight fists on her lap.

I put on my seat belt.

"Ready?" I ask.

She doesn't answer.

I start the car.

The road stretches ahead, long and quiet. My hands lie still on the wheel. I keep my voice low so she doesn't think I'm pushing.

"If you're tired, you can rest," I say.

Her head snaps toward me. "Don't tell me what to do."

The words sting, but I nod. "Okay."

Silence fills the car again.

Her fingers tremble in her lap. Her eyes keep jumping from the window to the door. I see it-the trapped feeling crawling through her chest. Her breathing shakes. She looks like a small bird inside a box.

"Lana," I whisper, "you're safe."

Her body jerks like I hit her.

"Stop saying that," she says, her voice cracking. "You keep saying I'm safe, but I don't feel it."

My breath leaves me. I grip the wheel. "Tell me what you need."

"Space," she says fast. "Room. Air."

"You'll have it," I promise. "At home, you-"

"Don't call it home," she cuts in. "It's your home. Not mine."

I feel the words burn. But I nod slowly.

The light turns red, and the car stops.

That's when she turns. Her eyes go to the door handle. Her fingers move toward it-slow at first, then fast.

My heart slams.

"Lana-wait!"

She pulls the handle hard. The door clicks.

I reach out instinctively-not rough, not tight, just enough to stop her from falling onto the road.

My hand wraps around her wrist.

She freezes.

Her breath catches, sharp. Her eyes fly to where my fingers touch her skin.

"Don't-" she whispers like a broken sound.

I let go immediately and raise both hands. "I'm not holding you. I'm not stopping you. I just don't want you to get hurt."

The door stays half open. Cold air rushes in, blowing her hair across her face. She sits still, trembling as she stares at freedom outside and fear inside.

Cars behind us honk.

"Please," I say softly, "let me close the door. Just that. Nothing more."

She doesn't speak.

Her shoulders drop a little.

I lean forward slowly, giving her time to pull away if she wants. She doesn't. I touch the door and close it gently.

Her breath shudders out. She leans her head on the glass, eyes shut tight.

I stay perfectly still.

When the light turns green, I drive again.

Fifteen minutes pass. She doesn't talk. She stares at her hands like she doesn't trust them.

"Lana..." I begin, "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have touched you. Even to stop you from falling."

Her lips press tight. She whispers, "I don't know what's real."

My chest twists. "I know."

"You say you're my husband," she says, eyes still on the window. "But I don't... feel it. I don't feel anything. I don't know you."

The words are soft. But they break something inside me.

"I'll earn it back," I say.

She shakes her head fast. "You talk like you own my life."

"I don't," I whisper. "I just... I care."

"That's what scares me," she says.

The car goes quiet again.

I pull into the underground garage of the building. She watches the walls closing around us. Her hands start shaking again.

"Please," she whispers, almost too soft to hear. "I don't want to be here."

"I know," I say gently. "But you need rest. I promise I'll keep distance."

I park and open my door.

When I walk to her side, she pulls her legs up like she wants to hide.

"I'll stand back," I say.

I take three steps away.

"Come when you're ready."

She opens the door slowly, her eyes always on me. Like a wild animal watching a hand it doesn't trust.

She stands on shaky feet.

I keep my hands behind my back so she sees I won't touch her.

When we walk to the elevator, she walks close to the wall, not to me. Her breaths are fast, short. Each step looks like it costs her something.

The elevator doors open.

She steps inside and stays near the corner. I stand near the door.

The doors close.

The quiet inside becomes thick.

She stares at the floor. Her fingers twist the bottom of her shirt. I want to speak, but my throat feels tight.

When the doors slide open again, she walks out fast, like she's escaping.

I follow her at a slow pace.

At the front door of the penthouse, she stops. Her shoulders lift and fall as she gathers air.

"Lana?"

She doesn't turn.

I reach forward, slow and careful, and place the key in the lock. The door clicks open. I step back again.

"You can go in first," I say softly.

She stands still for a long moment. Then she steps inside.

And freezes.

Her breath leaves her in a sharp, small sound.

I follow her gaze-and my heartbeat stops.

Because someone is standing inside the living room.

A woman.

Back turned.

Long dark hair falling down her back.

She turns slowly at the sound of our steps.

Lana takes a step back. Her hand grabs the door frame.

My eyes widen.

The woman smiles.

"Hello, Adrian," she says softly.

"As promised... I came back."

Lana's fingers dig into the wood.

My own breath stops.

Because the woman standing there is-

the last person Lana should ever see.