His eyes are half-lidded, clouded with sleep and weakness—but there is awareness in them. Light. Recognition. He sees me. He knows who I am. The world shrinks to a single point—the room, the darkness, the pain, even the fear, all gone. Only his eyes remain, and me—broken, lost, but still breathing because of that gaze.
"Max…" I exhale, not daring to believe, as if speaking louder would make it vanish.
His lips barely move, but no words are needed—every flutter of his lashes, every shallow breath says more than a thousand phrases.
And then I notice—his hand… weak, slow, straining—but he is reaching for me.
I sob. Not from pain, but from a happiness so sharp it feels like it is cutting me open. I throw myself toward him, collapsing to my knees beside his bed, seizing his hand, clutching it as if afraid he'll disappear again. That he'll slip back into the darkness he somehow escaped.
"Max?! You… you're awake?!" I can't believe it, can't trust it.
"Yeah, Rebel… Where are we?.." His voice is hoarse, strained—but alive.
I don't get to answer—the nurse walks in with a startled exclamation:
"Oh! You're awake? I'll fetch the doctor."
Max turns his gaze back to me.
"Katrin… why am I here?.." The confusion in his voice spears me through.
He doesn't remember… Not the abduction. Not the pain, not Ilya, not the horror. His eyes are empty of those memories. And that… scares me less than it should.
I even feel relief. A sick, guilty relief.
Like I've been given a second chance. A reset. Yes, it is selfish. But… I don't want him to remember. Don't want him to live with it. I'd rather he forget. Rather he stays with me. I'll carry it all—just to keep him here.
Only someone truly broken would rejoice that the person they love has lost part of their memory. But that's exactly what I am.
The doctor comes a few minutes later. Checks Max's pupils, pulse, asks questions. Max answers, frowns, struggles to recall. Thankfully, the doctor doesn't mention specifics—just says amnesia is possible, especially after a head injury and severe beating.
Then he leaves, promising to return later.
And we are alone again.
Max lies there, staring at the ceiling as if piecing together fragments of a puzzle. I stand silently beside him, torn between praying, smiling, or just weeping. Maybe all three. He turns his head toward me, his gaze weak but tender:
"You've been crying, huh?.."
"Of course," I smile through tears. "You scared the hell out of all of us."
He tries to smile back, but it comes out crooked and pained.
"We're really… in a hospital?.."
"Yeah, Max. You're safe."
And I sit beside him, taking his hand—no longer afraid, just grateful I can hold it again.
"Max, how are you feeling?.. What's the last thing you remember?" I ask, sitting beside him on the chair.
I can't stop looking at him, can't catch my breath. He is alive, breathing, looking at me. Though he still seems weak—almost translucent—I can already see small signs of improvement: his skin less pale, his hand warm when I touch it. Not ice-cold like when I thought his heart had stopped.
Max frowns, lifting his head slightly—clearly straining to remember. My heart pounds as if gripped by pliers—what if he remembers everything?.. Or worse, what if he doesn't?..
"Last thing?.." He closes his eyes, concentrating. "We were on a date..."
I hold my breath.
"Which one? We've had so many, Max." I try to smile, though my insides twist with fear.
"At the amusement park. I won you that giant stuffed bear. Remember?"
I nod, fighting back tears.
"That was six days ago," I say quietly.
He falls silent for a second.
"Six?.. What's today?"
"Thursday."
"Damn... Feels like I fell through time," he mutters with a nervous chuckle, though I hear the unease beneath it.
I just nod. He really has missed so much. Not just days—he's missed an entire world where we've grown closer. We... We've been together. Really together. He doesn't remember our first time.
Doesn't remember kissing me like he is afraid to let go.
Doesn't remember teaching me to dance the lambada in the living room, how passionate it was.
The memory brings fresh tears to my eyes. I want to go back—to when everything was whole. When he knew me, remembered every glance, every touch.
"You're crying?.." Max turns his head toward me with effort.
"No... It's just..." I wipe my eyes hastily. "You missed a lot of good things."
He reaches for me weakly, almost blindly, and I immediately slip my hand into his.
"Then tell me. Everything. From the beginning," he asks, locking eyes with me.
And I realize—I don't need to be afraid. Even if the pain has stolen his memories, he is still mine. He always has been.
"Katrin..." His voice is faint, barely a whisper. I meet his gaze—full of pain, worry, and tenderness."Tell me what happened. Why am I... like this?"
"Ivan..." That is all I can force out. A name that carries so much horror, rage, and helplessness.
"Did he hurt you?" His eyes flash with alarm, his voice shaking. Even broken in a hospital bed, he thinks of me.
"How can you—?" My voice cracks. "You're lying here barely breathing, and all you care about is whether I'm okay?"
"Answer me, please..." He squeezes my hand weakly but with desperate insistence, and my heart aches.
"No. He didn't lay a finger on me..." I look away. "I wish he had."
"Don't say that," he says, pain in his voice. "I couldn't live with myself if he'd hurt you. You know how much you mean to me..."
Tears well up, my throat tightening.
"Enough to die for me?" I whisper.
"Yes," he answers without hesitation. But I already know that. I've always known.
"What if I don't want you to be a martyr?" Tears stream down my face. "Why should you suffer because of me? I can't bear it if something happens to you..."
"Because I love you." He gives a weak smile. "I'd rather die knowing you're safe than live in a world without you."
"You almost did... on Tuesday," My voice trembles. "You almost died in my arms."
Silence stretches between us, broken only by the steady beep of machines. I still clutch his hand, terrified that if I let go, he'll vanish forever.
"Is that why you're so upset?" he asks softly, his gaze warm and searching. His eyes are full of worry—and an unbearable, quiet love.
"You think I haven't noticed?" His voice is gentle but firm. "I see how much you're hurting yourself. And the worst part? You're doing it alone. You're hurting me by shutting me out. Let me be there for you."
Every word pierces me. He is right. I've been so consumed by my own fears that I've forgotten him—his feelings, his care... his need to simply be with me.
I remember how it all begins. He always reaches for me—even when he doesn't know how to say it. And I... I reach back. I'm just too afraid. Now, I want to give him everything. Not because he demands it, but because I want to.
"You're right..." I whisper, lowering my eyes.
"We've talked about this, remember?" he says gently. "That time you thought I'd be upset about losing, about some stupid toy... I just wanted to see you smile. You overthink everything, Katrin. Sometimes you just need to feel."
"I won't anymore, Max. I promise..."
He turns my palm over and squeezes it—strong, sure, as if trying to pour all his unspoken love into that touch.
"I'm here. With you. And when I get out of here..." He grins through a wince of pain. "We're going on a real date. Just you and me. If you still want me, that is."
"Of course I do..." I laugh through tears. "I want to be your girl. For real."
He smirks.
"Not out of pity, I hope?" He winks, trying to lighten the mood.
"No, you idiot," I laugh—truly, freely, for the first time in so long. "I decided that long before any of this happened."
At that moment, the door to the hospital room opens, and Vi steps inside.
"Grandpa Vi!" Max exclaims, suddenly animated. "You came to visit me? Wow!"
"Oh, you're awake already," Vi says with audible relief, his voice warm with grandfatherly affection. "I'm glad. How are you feeling?"
"Better..." Max scratches the back of his head sheepishly. "Katrin, you really didn't have to bother Grandpa Vi like this..."
"I'm the one who brought you here," Vi says with a smile, glancing at Max. "Katrinka, sweetheart, you didn't tell him?"
"What didn't she tell me?" Max turns to me, a hint of wariness in his voice.
"I..." I lower my eyes, embarrassed. "I called him... He and his friend come to get us when it all happens. You're unconscious. I don't know what else to do."
"Oh..." Max's gaze shifts back to Vi, his eyes widening. "Then... thank you. Seriously. You save us."
"Ah, don't mention it," Vi waves him off with the kind of effortless kindness we all love him for. "Just call me anytime—though next time, maybe not in this condition, alright?"
"We promise," Max nods, then looks at me with quiet determination. "I'll make sure this never happens again."
The recovery is astonishingly fast. The doctors can only shake their heads—Max seems to draw strength from life itself. Or maybe... from love. I want to believe it's the latter.
Every day, he grows stronger, more alive. Though the pain still lingers, his eyes now hold something that has been missing for so long—light. We talk often, sometimes just sit in silence, hands clasped. And I never leave his side. Not even when the doctors suggest I step out for air—I only tighten my grip on his fingers.
"I'm not leaving without him," I say firmly—almost threateningly—when they urge me to take a break. After that, they stop asking.
Vi visits daily. He and Max quickly bond, and it's oddly heartwarming to watch the usually reserved Vi laugh at Max's jokes. They become real friends. It warms me—Max deserves someone wise and steady like him. We agree Vi won't mention Ilya. Max accepts this without question, silently trusting me. And that means everything.
Finally, we are discharged.
We—because I wouldn't walk out without him. Not for a second, not a single step. I'm his shadow, his crutch. And now, as he stands on his own feet—weak, unsteady, his face still pale as the first snow—I hold his hand, and he holds mine.
We leave the room together. Slowly, almost ceremoniously, as if crossing not just a hallway but the fragile line between past and future. His fingers intertwine with mine, warm and alive—a warmth I once lost and now cherish more than air itself.
Everything looks different now. The room where we fought so long stands empty, almost faceless. The walls that once felt oppressive are just walls. Even the hospital smell—sharp, sterile—no longer scares me. Because we are leaving. Together.
I glance back one last time at the bed where he lay. Where I sobbed, screamed, prayed, died, and was reborn. A part of me will always remain there—the part that almost gave up. But I let her go. Because now I carry something stronger, deeper, purer. Something that walked through fire and still burns.
He looks at me then. Slowly, with a tired but genuine smile. His eyes are full of a silence no longer haunted by death—only life. We don't speak. We don't need to. We just walk. Hand in hand. Step by step. Not back to the past—there is no path there anymore—but toward something new.
Like a beginning. Of something quiet. Clean. Warm. Life after the nightmare.
I know: we won't forget.
It will stay with us forever—not as an open wound, but a scar. And scars are proof the pain was survived. That the body and soul found the strength to heal.
And now, as we step past the hospital doors into a world where birds sing and a pale spring sun glows—I let myself smile. Small. Hesitant. But real.
Because we are alive.
Because he is beside me.
Because maybe... this time, things are different.