Willow lay back against the pillows while the doctor completed his assessment, watching the measured movement of his pen across the chart with an attention that felt sharper than her body deserved. The room had settled into a quieter state, stripped of urgency, reduced to observation and containment. Her arm lay immobilized beneath the cast, heavy and unresponsive, but her mind had cleared enough to follow every exchange without drifting. She knew where she was. She knew why she was there. What unsettled her was not the injury, but the subtle geometry of the room, the way everyone seemed positioned just far enough away to avoid contact.
Miles stood beside the bed, close enough to be present but not close enough to be intimate. Christy occupied the chair near the window, her posture composed, her hands folded loosely in her lap. Zane leaned against the wall near the door, arms crossed, his attention fixed on Willow with an expression she could not immediately interpret. The arrangement felt intentional, as though it had been agreed upon before she had opened her eyes.
The doctor glanced up from his notes and met Willow's gaze, his expression neutral and professional. "You're oriented," he said. "You know who you are, where you are, and what happened. That's a good sign. The next thing we assess is how your memory is organizing itself."
Willow nodded, her eyes flicking briefly to Miles before returning to the doctor. She could feel the restraint in him, the careful way he held himself, as if proximity had become something that required permission rather than instinct.
"Do you recognize everyone in the room?" the doctor asked.
"Yes," she said without hesitation.
"And you know their names?"
"Yes."
The doctor studied her face for a moment longer, then continued. "Do you feel any confusion about personal context or relationships?"
The question landed cleanly, clinical, without implication.
This was the moment.
The idea had been forming since she noticed the distance in Miles, the absence of warmth she had expected to find. Humor had always been how she tested ground that felt unstable, how she drew people back when they pulled away. She wanted to see his concern surface again, wanted proof that the tension she felt was fear rather than something colder.
Willow let a small pause stretch, just long enough to feel deliberate, then answered evenly. "I recognize people," she said. "I just don't always know where they belong yet."
Miles reacted immediately. Not dramatically, but enough that she felt it beside her, like a subtle shift in pressure.
The doctor nodded, unsurprised. "That can happen," he said. "Especially after prolonged loss of consciousness."
Willow kept her expression mild, curious rather than alarmed, and turned her head slightly toward Miles. "It's strange," she added. "I know he matters to me. I just can't place us clearly."
She waited for him to smile. To call her out. To reach for her and tell her to stop teasing him.
He did none of those things.
The doctor turned slightly toward Miles. "This sounds like retrograde amnesia affecting emotional sequencing," he said. "It can be temporary or longer lasting. It doesn't mean the memories are gone. It means the brain hasn't reconnected them yet."
"Is that permanent?" Miles asked.
"It can be," the doctor replied. "More often it resolves gradually. Emotional memory is usually the last to stabilize."
Willow felt her pulse quicken.
The prank had just been given a name.
She looked back at Miles, still expecting the familiar warmth to break through his composure, still waiting for him to laugh and tell the doctor she was being dramatic.
Instead, he spoke calmly. "We were engaged."
The words landed with a force she had not anticipated, not because they were untrue, but because of how easily he said them, how settled they sounded.
The doctor glanced up briefly, attentive but unsurprised.
Willow blinked, her mind scrambling to reframe the moment. "Okay," she said lightly. "That makes sense."
"Until about a month ago," Miles continued. "You ended it."
The room did not spin, but something inside her did, a sharp internal lurch as if her sense of balance had been pulled out from under her. She looked at him now with open disbelief, searching his face for the familiar tell that this was still part of the joke.
It was not.
"Miles," she said quietly, the word uncertain in her mouth.
He did not flinch.
"We are not together anymore," he said. "We broke up before the accident."
The words landed like ice.
Her breath caught. "What are you talking about?"
"You asked for space," he said. "You said it was mutual."
This is not happening, her mind insisted. This does not make sense.
"That's not true," she said, her voice thinning despite her effort to steady it. "That cannot be true."
His expression remained unchanged. Not cruel. Not apologetic. Simply resolved.
The doctor nodded as he wrote. "That's consistent," he said. "Stressful emotional decisions are often the first to feel unreal after head trauma."
Her stomach tightened.
This was no longer a joke.
Christy shifted slightly in her chair, her expression softening as she looked at Willow. "We were worried about you," she said gently.
Zane's gaze sharpened, his jaw tightening almost imperceptibly as he watched the exchange unfold.
Miles reached for Christy's hand.
The movement was deliberate. Not affectionate. Declarative.
Willow's eyes dropped to their joined fingers, her chest tightening as the implication settled.
The doctor glanced at the gesture, then back to Willow. "This may feel destabilizing," he said calmly. "Especially if the emotional timeline hasn't reconnected yet."
Miles spoke again, his tone even. "Christy and I are together now," he said. "And you had started seeing Zane."
He turned his head slightly. "Right?"
Zane did not answer immediately. His posture shifted, shoulders tightening, his eyes meeting Willow's for a fraction of a second before he looked away and nodded once.
"Yeah," he said. "That's right."
Silence settled heavily over the room.
Christy kept her hand in Miles's, her expression sympathetic, as though offering comfort for something already decided.
Willow felt the trap close.
The doctor spoke again, calm and authoritative. "What you're experiencing is very common," he said. "Your brain is trying to reconcile competing information. That can feel frightening, but it doesn't mean anyone here is being dishonest."
Willow stared at him, then at Miles.
Understanding came slowly, brutally.
She had offered uncertainty as a joke, and Miles had turned it into a fixed narrative, supported by medicine and witnesses. Her attempt to test his care had handed him control at the exact moment she had none.
"This isn't right," she said quietly.
Miles stepped closer, still not touching her. "You need rest," he said. "Let your brain settle."
The doctor nodded and began guiding the conversation toward quiet and recovery, reminding them to keep stimulation low. Christy released Miles's hand and stood. Zane lingered near the door, his silence heavy, then followed them out without looking back.
The room emptied.
The monitor resumed its steady rhythm.
Willow stared at the ceiling, her thoughts racing, her chest tight with the weight of what had just happened.
She had not meant to lie.
She had only wanted to see if he still cared.
The prank was over.
And she did not yet know what it had cost her.