She seems to sense the weight behind that and doesn’t push.
The doctor comes in then—a short man with silver-framed glasses and a calm, patient voice.He checks her vitals again, scans her chart, explains that the amnesia is likely short-term.
Likely.That word pisses me off.
“Her scans look clean,” he continues.“No internal bleeding, no fractures.She’s lucky.”
Lucky.My fists clench so tight my nails bite into my palm.She’s lying in a hospital bed, covered in bruises, terrified, with a chunk of her life missing and he calls that lucky?
Kelly breathes out a shaky sigh of relief, and I bite back my frustration.Let her hold onto that hope.She needs it.
“Do you remember anything from the accident?”the doctor asks her gently.
She frowns.“I… remember a truck.Then it hit me.”Her voice cracks.“Twice.I think, maybe not.”
I freeze.
Twice.That wasn’t an accident.That was deliberate.
My blood runs cold.
The doctor nods sympathetically.“Trauma often blurs the details.It’s okay to let the memories come back on their own.”
But she looks at me—not him—eyes glossy, searching.“It felt like someone wanted to hurt me,” she whispers.
My jaw locks.Everything in me goes still.She’s right.Someonedidwant to hurt her.
And they will pay for it.Mark my damn words.
The doctor excuses himself, promising to return once the neurologist arrives.The nurse adjusts Kelly’s blanket, dims the lights, and leaves us alone in the quiet room.
For a moment neither of us speaks.
Then she licks her lips nervously and says, “You really cared that I was hurt.”Cared.
Past tense.
My throat burns.“Of course I do,” I respond.
“Why?”Her voice is so small, so afraid to ask.
Because I love you, sunshine.Because losing you is the one thing that would break me clean in half.Because even when we weren’t speaking the same language emotionally, you were still the best part of my day.
But I can’t say any of that.Not when she doesn’t know me.Not when I’m the idiot who broke things off instead of claiming what I knew was mine.
So I give her the truth she can handle.“You matter,” I share softly.“More than you think.”
Her breath catches.Then, in a whisper: “I wish I remembered.”
The words gut me.She lifts a hand slightly—hesitant, unsure—and for a second I think she’s reaching for me.My heart lodges in my throat.
But she stops herself and lets her hand fall back onto the blanket.“I’m sorry,” she whispers.“I don’t even know what I’m apologizing for.”
“You don’t need to apologize for anything,” I tell her.My voice is low, steady, the opposite of what I feel inside.“This isn’t your fault.What happened to you—someone else did that.”
Her eyes widen.“You think it wasn’t an accident?”
I shouldn’t tell her.Not yet.But after everything she’s been through, I can’t lie to her again.“I don’t know for sure,” I explain.“But I’m gonna find out.”
