Chapter 2

Toby woke up the next afternoon.

I had been dozing by his bedside. The moment I heard movement, I looked up and met his eyes.

I had known those eyes for ten years, from eighteen to twenty-eight, from naive to steady, from unfamiliar to home.

I knew every look he had—when he was gentle, when he was tired, when he was angry, and that soft, shining affection he only ever showed me.

Now, there was nothing there.

He looked at me as if I were a stranger.

"Who are you?" he asked, his voice dry.

I froze for a second, thinking he was joking. "Who am I? I'm Wilona. Your wife."

"Wife?" He frowned. "When did I ever get married?"

My heart dropped, but I forced a smile. "Did you forget? We got married right after graduation. This is our third year. Yesterday, you were so excited that you fell and hit your head—"

"I don't even know you," he cut in, his tone flat. "I don't remember any of that."

My fingers tightened around the bedsheet.

"It's okay," I said, trying to keep my voice steady. "The doctor said it's temporary. You'll remember slowly. Just focus on getting better. There's no rush—"

"My memory stopped at eighteen," he said, cutting me off again. His gaze drifted past me and out the window. "I remember applying to colleges. I remember picking a school in Arkney City.

"I remember my mom's cooking. I remember a lot of things. But not you."

His thoughts drifted back to that summer when he was eighteen.

That year, I still hadn't met him.

We met during freshman club orientation. He wore a white shirt and stood behind the literature club table. The sunlight came from behind him and outlined him in gold.

When I walked past, he handed me a flyer and smiled. "Hi, do you want to join the literature club? We can write poetry together."

That was the first time my heart had skipped a beat like that.

Later, he told me he had felt something, too. He said the sun had been so bright that day that he hadn't even seen my face clearly.

He had only noticed a girl in a white dress walking by, her hair moving in the wind. He had thought she looked beautiful, so he handed her a flyer.

He said that if he could go back, he would still hand me that flyer at that same time and place.

But now he was eighteen again. Back then, at that time and place, he hadn't met me yet.

The day he got discharged from the hospital, I drove to pick him up.

He sat in the back seat and didn't say a single word to me the entire ride. His phone rang now and then. He would glance at it, and a small smile would form on his lips. It was a careful, almost shy smile that only teenagers had.

I caught it once in the rearview mirror, and something tightened in my chest.

When we got home, he stood at the entryway and stared at the wedding photos on the wall. His expression looked confused and distant.

"Is that us?" he asked, pointing at the pictures.

"Yes," I said as I changed into my slippers and looked at him. "We took those when we got married. You were so annoyed back then. The photographer kept asking you to smile, and your face went stiff."

He frowned and stared at them for a while. Then he said, "I don't remember."

"It's okay," I said as I opened the fridge. "Are you hungry? Do you want me to make some pasta? You always liked my pasta the most—"

"No, thanks," he cut in. "I want to see our stuff."

I paused for a second before I understood. "You mean the marriage certificate and our chat history?"

"Yeah," he replied.

I took the marriage certificate out of a drawer and handed it to him. Then I opened my phone and showed him our messages from the past ten years, starting from college.

He sat on the couch with his head lowered and read through everything, one message at a time.

I sat beside him and looked at his side profile. My chest felt heavy with a mix of bitterness and sadness.

His profile hadn't changed. The lines were still clean, and his jaw was still sharp. I had kissed that face countless times. I used to sneak kisses in college, and after we got married, I no longer had to hide them.

Sometimes he would fall asleep, and I could not. I would lie next to him and trace his features with my finger, from his brow to his nose, from his nose to his lips, again and again, like I was tracing a painting I could never get tired of.

But now that same face was right in front of me, and it felt more unfamiliar than a stranger's.

After a long time, he finally looked up. "I saw everything. The messages are real, and the photos are real. But I still don't remember any of it."

For a moment, I had no idea what to say.

"To me, you're a stranger," he said as he handed my phone back. His tone sounded as flat as if he were talking about the weather. "I know that might be hard for you to accept, but that's the truth."

I tightened my grip on my phone, and my nails pressed into my palm.

"It's okay," I said. "The doctor said your memory will come back slowly."