I didn't realize I was crying until my aunt pulled me into her arms.
"It's okay… it's okay," she kept saying, her hand moving gently over my hair.
It wasn't okay.
Nothing about this was okay.
"He doesn't remember me," I whispered, my voice breaking. "He looked at me like I was nothing."
My mother sat beside me, her face tight with worry, her fingers wrapped around mine.
"Samirah, listen to me," she said softly. "He's alive. That's what matters."
Alive.
Yes.
But not mine anymore.
Not in the way that mattered.
"He asked if I was family," I said, letting out a shaky breath. "He asked like I was a stranger."
No one had an answer for that.
What could they even say?
That it would magically fix itself?
That he'd wake up tomorrow and remember everything?
We all knew it didn't work like that.
The door opened quietly.
The doctor stepped in.
Everyone went silent.
That kind of silence that comes when you're afraid of what's about to be said.
He looked at me first.
"Samirah," he said gently, "can we talk?"
I nodded, even though I didn't feel ready.
I followed him a few steps away, my arms wrapping around myself like I was trying to hold everything together.
"He has retrograde amnesia," the doctor began. "From what we can tell, he's lost memories connected to specific periods and emotional attachments."
My chest tightened.
"Meaning?" I asked quietly.
"He may remember facts. People. General knowledge," he explained. "But anything deeply emotional—relationships, personal bonds—those are often the most affected."
My throat went dry.
"So… me," I said.
He didn't deny it.
"Yes."
The word hit harder than I expected.
"Will it come back?" my mother asked from behind me.
The doctor hesitated.
And that hesitation said enough.
"It can," he said carefully. "But there's no guarantee. Memory recovery in cases like this is unpredictable."
Unpredictable.
I hated that word.
"What happens if we tell him?" I asked.
"If I just tell him the truth—everything—what happens?"
The doctor's expression turned more serious.
"That's where we need to be careful."
My heart dropped.
"Careful how?"
"If you force memories on him—especially emotional ones—it could overwhelm his brain," he said. "Confusion, stress, even setbacks. In some cases, patients become resistant or agitated."
I frowned. "Resistant?"
"Yes," he said. "If his mind isn't ready to accept those memories, he might reject them entirely. Even if they're true."
The thought made my chest tighten.
Reject them.
Reject me.
"So what are we supposed to do?" my aunt asked. "Pretend none of it happened?"
The doctor exhaled slowly.
"Not pretend," he said. "But don't push. Let him relearn things naturally. Let his brain rebuild those connections on its own."
"And if it doesn't?" I asked.
He didn't answer immediately.
Then—
"Then you create new ones."
Silence filled the room.
Heavy.
Unavoidable.
My fingers tightened slightly.
"So I just… act like I'm nothing to him?" I asked.
"No," the doctor said gently. "You act like someone he can trust. Someone safe. Familiarity can trigger memory, but it has to happen gradually."
Gradually.
Slow.
Painfully slow.
"And the marriage?" my mother asked quietly. "Should he know?"
The doctor looked at me before answering.
"That decision is yours," he said. "But my recommendation? Not yet."
My stomach dropped.
"Why?"
"Because that's not just information," he replied. "That's emotional weight. If he doesn't feel it, but you tell him it exists… it could create distance instead of closeness."
Distance.
Like we didn't already have enough of that.
I let out a shaky breath, trying to steady myself.
"So I wait," I said.
"Yes."
"And say nothing."
"For now."
My chest ached.
Because everything in me wanted to go back into that room and tell him the truth.
You married me.
You loved me.
You chose me.
But what if he looked at me the same way?
Blank.
Unfamiliar.
What if those words meant nothing to him?
I nodded slowly.
"Okay."
The doctor gave me a small, reassuring look. "You're not losing him," he said. "This is just… a different path back to him."
A different path.
It didn't feel like that.
It felt like starting over with someone who already belonged to me.
Or used to.
I wiped my face quickly before anyone could say anything else.
"I'll go back in," I said.
My mother squeezed my hand. "Are you sure?"
No.
But I nodded anyway.
Because whether I was ready or not—
He was in there.
Alive.
Awake.
And waiting.
And this time…
He wouldn't remember loving me.
I would have to make him feel it again.