“The seizure at the mall wasn’t the first one,” he said. “You had one before. Months ago, right after the wedding. That’s what caused the memory loss. Why you can’t remember the past year.”
I watched his face while he talked. The way his hands rested on his knees, fingers loosely linked but not quite relaxed.
“The doctors ran tests back then,” he continued. “They determined it was an isolated incident. Something that happened once and probably wouldn’t happen again. Theymonitored you for a while, and when nothing else happened, they thought you were okay.”
“But I’m not, so what next?.”
“You have been fine. For these few weeks. No symptoms. Nothing that would suggest—” He stopped. Started again. “And now it has happened again at the mall.”
And now? Am I dying or something?” I asked, dread building up in my chest.
“You are not,” Michael said sharply, too fast, too forceful. “The doctors are just concerned. They’re running more tests to understand why the seizure is recurring.”
“Is that what you and Jack were talking about?” I asked. “In the hospital hallway?”
His eyes came back to mine. “Yes. We were trying to figure out how to tell you. The doctors said stress could trigger another episode, so we were being careful about how to approach it.”
I wanted to believe him. The explanation made sense on the surface. Seizures happened. They could cause memory loss. They could come back.
I studied Michael’s face. The tension in his shoulders that he was trying to hide. The way he sat like he was holding something heavy that he couldn’t put down.
“Okay,” I said quietly, even though nothing about this felt okay.
“Okay?”
“I understand. About the seizure. About the tests.” I pulled back the covers. “I’m tired.”
He came to my bedside and pulled the cover over me, adjusting my pillows. Then he settled on the space next to me. Strong arms pulled me close, his warmth wrapping around me. I let him. Let myself sink into the warmth of him, the familiar weight of his arm across my waist, the steady rhythm of his breathing against my hair.
The medications were starting to work, softening the edges of everything until even my fear felt distant.
And that phrase from the hallway kept circling back, cold and sharp: the peace she has left.
What peace? What was left of it?
Michael’s arms tightened around me. I felt his breath warm against the back of my neck, felt his lips press there gently.
“I love you,” he whispered.
I wanted to say it back. The words were right there. But they stuck in my throat.
Was he lying to me? Even through my suspicions, sleep dragged me under, pulling me down into darkness with Michael’s presence surrounding me and doubt settling cold in my chest.
I woke to darkness—and an empty bed.
My hand reached out automatically, searching for him. Found only sheets that had gone cool.
I sat up slow, waiting for my head to clear. The medications left everything foggy. My thoughts felt like they were moving through something thick. Heavy.
The clock on the nightstand glowed: 2:47 AM.
I pushed back the covers and stood, my feet finding the floor. Cold hardwood that made me more awake.
The house was dark except for a thin line of light spilling from under Michael’s study door.
My feet started moving before I’d fully decided to. One step. Then another. I pushed the door opened, only to find it empty.
It felt like an opportunity. And I needed answers.
