#amnesia

satoru was no stranger to pain—not at all. he lived it, breathed it. in fact, there have been so many instances in his life where he felt the weight of his sorrow to be too heavy to carry, times when he didn’t even think he could make it through alive.

but, at least through all those times there was you—his light of hope—the only hope he had left, that he could cling to when times were rough.

now, he had nothing.

oh.

oh. fuck.

he was going to be sick.

“d-do you know me?—me? love, what are you talking about…?”

never in his wildest nightmares could he imagine a feat like this, where the universe could be so cruel so as to tear the one person he treasured from him in the worst way possible.

his ears rang with a twisted sort of screech, disorienting him to the horrors happening around him—he could almost swear the breaking of his own heart was audible.

all the days spent with you. gone.

all the years of love and happiness. gone.

everything. gone.

for a moment, satoru just stays frozen there, staring at you like the world has tilted off its axis and he’s the only one who can feel it. the air in the room feels thinner—too thin. it feels like the oxygen in the room has been siphoned out and replaced with pure lead.

its harder to breathe. it’s hard to breathe. he can’t breathe—he can’t—

you gently touch his arm, and he recoils as if he’s been struck.

he doesn’t blink.

he’s terrified that if he does, he'll have to accept that this is real.

but you’re still looking at him the same way when he finally forces himself to move as the reality finally sinks in. you don't know him—its clear in your expression. your eyes are open, lucid, yet searching his face with cautious curiosity instead of recognition. there’s no warmth there. not even a flicker of shared history. nothing to prove for your shared nights of laughing and tears and everything in between.

just a stranger.

“oh,” he whispers, staring blankly at the wall behind you. his voice is barely audible, cracking and splintering over the one syllable that was able to leave his mouth. he doesn't cry—his brain still refusing to believe this reality.

you shift slightly against the pillows, wincing faintly as your body adjusts. the sound is small and pained and instinctively he leans forward to help—but stops himself halfway, hands hovering uselessly midair when he sees the subtle tension in your shoulders. he drops his arms immediately, stepping back as though he’s crossed a boundary he didn’t know could exist until now.

“I’m sorry,” you repeat, brows knitting together as if you’re genuinely distressed by your own confusion. “I don’t… I don’t know you. do you know me?”

he nods quickly, “that’s okay,” he whispers, letting his head drop into his hands. his larynx won't let him make another noise past that, every time he attempts to speak his voice fractures around the edges. after a minute he clears his throat, trying again, “it’s okay. you’ve been through a lot. a-and yes. yes i do know you. god, do i know you…”

you study him closer now, and he feels your gaze like a physical thing—like he’s being examined, having his honesty scrutinized by the one woman he would rather die than lie to. he's suddenly acutely insecure of the dark circles carved deep beneath his eyes and the hoodie he hasn’t changed out of in days.

he must look fucking unhinged.

“who are you?” you ask gently, unknowingly twisting the dagger further into his heart.

he swallows painfully, trying to breathe through the way his head feels like it'll split open, how his lungs feel like they might collapse and his throat betrayingly closes on him, “I’m satoru,” he offers slowly, wishfully hoping that his name might magically trigger something if he enunciates it carefully enough.

nothing changes in your expression except for a look of pure pity. it makes something in his chest splinter.

“we—” he starts, and then stops, exhaling shakily. “we were—are—were together..”

your eyes flicker with surprise

“together—? like...?” you echo quietly.

“yeah.” he forces a smile that trembles despite his effort. “we were dating”

he doesn’t mention how deeply intertwined your lives were—doesn’t mention the apartment you share or the toothbrush next to his in the holder or the way you used to fall asleep with your hand wrapped tracing his heart, feeling the gradual slowing as he succumbed to his exhaustion.

he doesn’t think he could survive saying any of those things out loud right now.

you look down at your hands, at the hospital bracelet around your wrist, at the IV taped to your skin. subconsciously, your fingers curl slightly into the blanket, scrunching up the rough fabric.

“I’m really sorry,” you whisper again. “I just… I don’t feel anything. I don’t remember being with you.”

he collapses back onto the chair, unable to keep his shaky legs up any longer. for a second—just one—something selfish surges up his throat. he wants to shake you and tell you everything. to force every memory back into you one by one until something sticks. to describe the way you laugh when you’re half-asleep in excruciating detail, the way you pretend you don’t like being kissed on the forehead even though you lean into it every time.

he wants to beg. to scream. to curse the world and just die where he stands.

“that’s okay,” he finally bites out, forcing his voice to come out evenly, “you don’t have to.”

after a few agonizing minutes of silence, the doctor finally stepped in, clipboard in hand, but the second he sees satoru's shattered expression and your confused gaze, he freezes, his face reflecting his pity.

"ah… I was afraid of this," the doctor muttered under his breath before clearing his throat, "mr. gojo—"

"fix it." satoru seethes sharply, voice low despite how wrecked he looks, "please just.. fix it. fix her. isn't there anything you could do?"

the doctor sighed, a mix of sympathy and resignation on his face, "mr. gojo, I'm afraid there's nothing more we can administer. retrograde amnesia of this level—"

"bullshit. there has to be something, anything!" he cuts off, patience wearing thin, "some drug, a procedure—something!" he was grasping at straws now, desperate for anything to get you back. "fuck—how did this even happen..?" he asks brokenly, voice cracking, "why?"

"I really do apologize, sir, but we've exhausted all of our options. the human brain is a complex machine, and the substances she's consumed has impaired her brain's hippocampus, we cannot just go in and flip memories on and off at will."

the doctor continues gently, though his words were more like nails being driven into satoru's already devastated heart. "not to mention, the amnesia she has might be temporary. she could eventually recover her memories with gentle memory aids and time."

satoru's head snapped towards the doctor, hope cutting through his despair.

"gentle…memory aids?" he repeated. his eyes darted to you—your confused face—and then back to the doctor.

"how? what kind?"

the doctor seemed to soften a bit, seeing the absolute devotion in satoru's eyes. "photos. objects with significance. smells—perfume, your cologne." he gestures vaguely at satoru's eager expression, "without overwhelming her. it won't be an instant fix, and it is still a long shot."

satoru's mind was already racing. he could do that, he would do that. he could collect every single picture, every single video, every single love letter that he had written to you. he could drive you to every place you two have ever been. anything if it meant getting you back.

"okay.." he whispers, eyes snapping back to your curious gaze, "okay, i can do that.. thank you. thank you."

the first place he takes you is back to your shared apartment, holding you by the hand to steady you as you walk up the stairs to your shared dorm room.

"home," he whispers quietly as he opens the door for you, allowing you two to walk in. meanwhile, he's mentally preparing himself for the emotional toll of having to reintroduce you to your home of three years.

he keeps his hand wrapped around yours as you step inside, steadying you to make sure you don't trip on the chipped floorboard at the entrance. the apartment smells the same—laundry detergent, starbucks coffee pods, and the faint aroma of the candle you used to light every time you'd study. it’s all exactly as you left it.

and it's all completely foreign to you.

your gaze drifts over the couch. the throw blanket folded neatly over the arm. the permanent dent in the cushion from years of curling up and reading books in the same spot.

“did we live here long?” you ask offhandedly, just to quell this awkwardness between you two and start a conversation.

“three years,” he answers curtly.

three years of shared mornings. three years of domestic slumber parties. three years of building a bond that now only one of you remembers.

he watches your face carefully—desperately searching for anything, preferably a flicker of familiarity.

nothing.

you wander slowly through the living room like a guest in someone else’s house. your fingers brush over shelves filled with little trinkets—concert wristbands, old keychains, your chipped tea mug.

“where'd we get this?” you ask, holding up a small, beat-up hello kitty stuffie.

he smiles faintly at the reminder of that old plushie you used to love so much, “ah. you cried when I won that for you at a carnival early on when we started dating." a brief, nostalgic pain passes over his features, "you said that it was the most romantic thing anyone had ever done for you.”

you blink at it, “I did?”

“yeah.” his voice softens. “you insisted you were keeping it forever. god, I've tried convincing you to toss that beat up thing for ages, but you would just never let it go.”

you smile bittersweetly at the lost memory, your expression apologetic. “right… thank you.”

he looks away and nods quickly, like it doesn’t hurt. he doesn't deserve to hurt, he reminds himself, he's the one who did this to you, after all.

a framed photo catches your eye, and you point at it, redirecting his focus.

“where was that one?” you ask curiously. “it looks so pretty.”

his gaze follows your finger. the town square you two would always visit. it was golden hour in the middle of summer. a perfect photo with you at the center in front of the beautiful fountain. he snapped a candid photo of you mid-laugh, your head thrown back in glee. the photo, unbeknownst to you, was also his current lockscreen.

he lets out a pained chuckle. “yeah… pretty is an understatement. we took it at the town square on our two-year anniversary.” his throat tightens. “you should’ve seen yourself that day, you were practically dashing around like a kid on a sugar rush trying to take everything in.”

you tilt your head at the photo, “I look so happy.”

“you were,” he remarks fondly. with me, he doesn’t add.

a few minutes later, you drift into the bedroom. he lingers in the doorway, unsure if he’s allowed to, or even should follow.

you pick up a polaroid from the nightstand. “the restaurant in this one looks really baroque,” you comment casually.

the photo shows the two of you at a stupidly expensive restaurant somewhere in kyoto. candlelight everywhere. you were both leaning across the table, recreating the ridiculous disney spaghetti kiss while grinning like idiots.

he forces a smile onto his face, but his insides are churning like he's going to be sick, a small flame of self-pitying fury swelling up in his chest. how can you remember a word as ridiculous as 'baroque' but you couldn't even remember my own name?

you study the photo closely, "can we go back to that restaurant sometime?” you ask softly. “I wanna see if it'll maybe trigger a memory or something.”

before he can even help it, he snaps harshly, "if your own fucking bedroom doesn't trigger shit, then what will a random restaurant do for you that I couldn't?"

he regrets the words the second they leave his lips, and he instinctively clamps a hand over his mouth to keep from saying anything more. he feels the color drain from his face, leaving nothing but horror.

satoru shrinks back instantly, like the sound of his own voice disgusts him.

again.

he did it again.

he snapped at you. he raised his voice, with the same tone. same edge. same cruelty that spiraled everything out of control in the first place. he's no better than how he was before the accident.

he starts desperately. "fuck. I'm so sorr—"

“—well,” you interrupt gently, “then if not to trigger an old memory, maybe we can go to that restaurant to make some new ones?”

he blinks stupidly.

you lower the photo, holding it loosely at your side. “we don’t have to recreate our past frame by frame,” you continue, voice steady. “but I’ve seen enough proof by now to know we had something. and if our memories were real once… why don’t we try to make some new ones?”

god. he doesn't think he could feel like more of a dick if he tried. you’re standing there offering him hope and grace right after he just yelled at you. you. you who don't even remember loving him but still try regardless.

you really were always too goddamn good for me, he thinks.

here he is, lashing out because he’s frustrated and grieving and terrified… and you’re responding with patience and kindness. the same kindness he weaponized the night everything fell apart. and following that thought, an ugly realization hits him like a bucket of ice cold water.

you don’t know.

you don’t know how you ended up in that hospital bed. he hasn't told you yet.

you don’t know about the fight. the words he'd spat at you. the way your face crumpled when he said them. the pills. the silence.

you don’t know that the reason you almost didn’t wake up is because he couldn’t control his goddamn mouth.

oh Lord. how would you look at him if you did? would that softness in your eyes vanish? would you abandon him entirely? you don’t have three years of memories anchoring you to him anymore. nothing to tether you to him.

you could leave him painlessly and he would be the only one left bleeding.

suddenly, the idea of “new memories” doesn’t sound so bad anymore—it sounds like his new lifeline.

“y-yeah,” he says quietly. “yeah, we can do that… and I’m really sorry for snapping at you.”

you give him a small, understanding smile. “don’t worry about it,” you offer softly. “I’m sure this must be a lot for you. I don’t even know how I’d handle it if the love of my life forgot everything about me.”

he almost laughs. probably better than I’m handling it, that’s for sure. because if the roles were reversed—if he had forgotten you—you would’ve been patient, it was in your nurturing nature. you wouldn’t have torn him apart with your own grief, you wouldn’t have made it about you, you wouldn’t have snapped at him. you wouldn't have done any of the bullshit he's inflicting upon you now.

he nods, swallowing hard, “yeah,” he murmurs. “it’s…um, it's a lot.”

“we’ll figure it out, okay?”

he wants to agree and believe that everything will be fine, but inside, something shifts. because if you ever find out the truth—if you ever remember the way his words felt that night—he knows he won’t fight you if you decide to leave. he wouldn't dare trap you with history you can’t recall.

if you decide to walk away, he’ll let you. because loving you this time means being willing to lose you, it's what you both deserve—for opposite reasons.

you’re sitting across from him at the same restaurant from the polaroid.

there's the same intimately warm lighting, same ridiculously over-the-top chandeliers, and the same dramatically ornate decor that makes you feel like you should’ve shown up in a ballgown instead of jeans.

satoru’s been subtly staring at you for the past five minutes, probably comparing this version of you to the one in the photo. you, meanwhile, are miserably staring at the menu containing all the delicious sounding foods you know you can't eat.

by doctor’s orders, you’re not supposed to eat anything heavy for the next few days. “light foods. focus on greens. nothing irritating,” or something along the lines of that.

but if you have to suffer? satoru’s suffering with you.

you lower the menu slowly and peer at him over the top. “c’monnn,” you pry sweetly, “be a gentleman and order me a salad.”

“I already told you I can’t do that!”

“why not?”

“the waiter’s gonna think I’m some misogynistic prick who won’t let his date eat carbs!”

you grin sadistically. “oh noo.. wouldn't that be tragic.”

he leans across the table, whisper-hissing, “you don’t understand. they’ll judge me. I’ll see it in their eyes. ‘wow, that poor woman. her asshole of a date is forcing her to consume leaves while he eats whatever he wants.’”

the smile stays plastered on your face as you tap the menu thoughtfully, your mind already made.

“come on, please." he begs, "at least order the salad with steak on the side or something.”

“nope,” you say brightly. “I want number twenty-eight. the 'vigorously-vegan-gargantuanly-green whole salad.'"

he blinks. “…you're fucking with me. there's no way that's real option.”

“oh, it's real alright. and thats the one I want,” you reply confidently. “so order that one for me. please and thank you.”

“I hate you so much,” he groans, dragging a hand down his face. “you’re just trying to make me look like an asshole in public.”

you lean back in your chair, pleased. “oh, absolutely. this is character development for you.”

“for me?!” he whisper-shouts. “you're really gonna make ask the waiter for some ‘vigorously vegan gargan—’ I can’t even fucking pronounce it!”

“gargantuanly,” you correct helpfully.

“you have to be joking.”

“nope.”

the waiter approaches at the worst possible moment, a sweet smile on her face as she gestures to your menus, “are we ready to order?”

you fold your hands politely in your lap and smile like an angel. the waiter looks at him, and he looks at you. at his continued silence, you raise your brows expectantly, beckoning him to order.

he inhales slowly, “um.. I'll take the steak. rare. and she..” he starts, visibly pained, “would like the—the.. number twenty eight..”

the waiter pauses for a second, turning to you, “ma'am, is that what you'd really like? we value autonomy here.” she asks politely, clearly well-intentioned.

you have to stifle laugh to keep from losing it completely, "yes, yes. thank you. that's what I'd like today."

"right," she smiles, writing down the order onto her notepad, "excellent choice. we just like to make sure everyone at the table is heard," she states before walking towards the kitchen to put in the order.

the second she’s out of earshot, you burst into raucous, unrestrained laughter. a sound he didn't realize until now he's missed hopelessly. his thoughts flit back to that photograph back at the apartment that you'd pointed out, the candid shot of you laughing during golden hour.

“you’re so evil,” he mutters quietly, "you haven't changed at all."

your laughter doesn't die down fully, but just enough for you to breathe out, “I’m on a medically-mandated greens diet. this is the only joy I'll get out of it.”

and when your green goddess salad eventually arrives, you decide to screw the doctors orders anyway and eat half his steak.

he’s been sleeping alone on the couch for almost a week.

not that he’d ever try to force you to share the bed—your memories of him only go as far as last week, after all—but the coldness he feels at night without you pressed up against him is a physical ache, a hollowness he can’t shake. the warmth he had taken for granted, the warmth he tore away with his own hands, now leaves him shivering miserably, even under layers of blankets.

then he hears a crash coming from your room, followed by a small, sharp cry.

he’s on his feet in an instant, panic lancing through him. his brain is reeling, subconsciously replaying the traumautic scene he'd endured last time he had to barge in on you in your bedroom.

“sweetheart?!” he blurts, the old nickname slipping out before he even realizes it, “Is everything okay? what happened??”

his already minimal patience vanishes completely. the door swings open before you can respond, and his chest tightens at the sight before him.

you’re sitting on the floor next to your bed, knees drawn to your chest, back pressed against the wood. you're trembling violently at the sight before you. the nightstand drawer is open in front of you, its contents scattered in a careless, frantic display.

and in your trembling hands—gripped tightly—is the small half-empty bottle of pills you don't recognize.

his stomach drops out from under him, a free-falling pit that makes his head spin.

“satoru…” you whisper, voice trembling so much it shatters him. “what… what is all of this in my drawer? why… why is it here? why is it almost empty?”

fuck. fuckfuckfuck. he'd forgotten to throw all that shit out before you came home.

“you… um,” he stammers, voice thick, “you… you used to… we both used to be… I mean, I mean, I haven’t touched anything since… since your accident. I promise. I swear I haven’t.”

“my accident..? what does my accident have to do with—” you cut yourself off, the dark realization hitting you like a ton of bricks.

oh god. the thought echoes in unison.

he hadn’t meant to say that. not yet. not like this. but you've always been too perceptive, too painfully intuitive for him to hide anything.

“…satoru,” you whisper again, voice barely audible, “what—what happened…? from the beginning. how… how did I even lose my memory?”

he freezes. every muscle in his body locks as if he's freefalling. there it is. the cliff. the edge. the moment he’s been trying to bury beneath layers of new memories and wishful thinking.

he could lie. He could say it was an accident. a slip. that it wasn’t what it was. he could fabricate a story and maybe—maybe—you wouldn’t hate him.

but the the guilt is rotting him from the inside. it's corroding his organs, how could he dare to do this to you and then take advantage of your lapse in memory to lie to you about it? he had to tell you the truth, it was the absolutely least he owed to you.

…

“that,” he croaks, pointing shakily at the bottle clutched inside your hand with his index, then his finger turns around and jabs at his own sternum, "and this." he whispers brokenly.

your brows furrow in fear, “what? what are you saying?”

he can barely breathe.

“it was me,” he rasps, tears slipping freely down his face now, “it was all my fault. I did this to you”

your mind goes blank, and you can hardly comprehend the weight of his words. can hardly comprehend anything. everything he's done with you in the past week, the rehabilitation, the laughter, the outings—was it all just to conceal his sins? so he could feel less guilty about whatever he did to make you end up like this in the first placec?

he swallows hard. forces himself to breathe. lowers his voice until it’s a ragged whisper, almost a confession.

“I said things I shouldn’t have,” he admits, eyes dropping to the floor. “I hurt you. I was drunk. I said… I said things I didn’t mean.”

you absorb that quietly, letting the words slowly break your mind, “…and then?”

he can’t. he can’t say it. his jaw tightens until it aches, and his hands tremble like leaves in the wind.

“tell me what happened,” you demand, voice falsely steady but quivering deep underneath. “I deserve to know.”

he flinches at your tone, but obliges nonetheless, “I said terrible things to you,” he manages finally. “you… you were scared, and I… I wasn’t there when I should have been. when you locked yourself in here and saw that,” he gestures to the contents of your fingers, "and you—you... fuck—" his voice breaks, cracking around the syllables he can't seem to spit out.

you can’t look at him. you can’t. every fiber of you aches, a deep, hollow pain. you trusted him. you can't believe you trusted him. this strange man who was magically there when you woke up in the strange hospital and wouldn't leave your side since. the man who you've relearned your entire world through.

the man who turned out to have made you end up like this in the first place.

“I… I can’t,” you whisper, shaking, your voice breaking under the strain. “…I need… I need space…”

your eyes, full of something he can’t name—pain, distrust, fear—meet his for a fraction of a second before you look away. the weight of the world feels like it’s on your shoulders, and with trembling hands, you gather your few belongings to prepare to leave.

he reaches out desperately, pleading for you to let him explain, but it’s too late. your footsteps echo as you leave. the last thing he hears is the cruel click of the door shutting between you.

and he slides down the wall, collapsing to the floor—trembling, broken, all alone.

he'd told himself, over and over, that if—when it came to this, he would let you go. that he wouldn’t beg, wouldn’t claw, wouldn’t smother you with apologies or desperate pleas. he wouldn't try to gaslight you or guilt trip you into staying with him. he'd never make the mistake of sacrificing your happiness for his again. he promised himself that he would stand there, hollow-eyed, and watch you walk away if that was what you needed.

because he’s always known, deep down in the part of him he hides from even himself, that you deserved better. so much better than him. better than the man who snapped, who hurt you, who let your pain go unchecked because he was drowning in his own guilt. better than someone who could only love you imperfectly and destructively.

and as he sits there, hands trembling, staring at the closed door that now separates him from the only person who ever made him feel whole, a disturbing thought crosses his mind. that maybe letting you go was the only thing he could do to protect you from himself.

the apartment is silent. and silent it'll stay.

you didn't expect that losing a man you've known for only a week would destroy you this much. but then again, he's all you've known for the entirety of this new life, and technically, you've known him for so much longer. it was evident in your muscle memory, where amnesia couldn't touch. how your body would relax around him, melt into his embrace on the off occasions where he would hug you, how your muscles would loosen up at just the sound of his voice alone.

one week? yeah right.

you don’t know how long you’ve been walking. your feet carry you as you mindlessly shuffle around the city, but your mind is lost somewhere in a fog of betrayal. every echo of your own steps sounds like a countdown—tick, tick, tick—to some unavoidable doom.

for some odd reason, you feel like you've felt like this before. hopeless and bitter and betrayed—and did you always feel this claustrophobic?

the streetlights blur in your vision, melting into pools of yellow and gold. your amnesia-disoriented brain struggles to take in all of the scenery. for a second, you almost want to turn back, to run through that apartment door, to throw yourself at him and scream, don’t leave me, you're all I have left—all I know.

but the memory of his confession, the words he didn’t mean—and even worse—the ones he did—wraps around your chest like a vice. 'it was all my fault.' you can still hear his voice ringing in your head, trembling, broken, as the tears streaked down his face. a familiar wave of nausea rolls over you as the terrible memories replay like a broken record.

the warmth you felt in the past week, the gentle laughter, the soft reassurances—they’re poisoned now. you can’t unhear him. you can’t unsee everything.

so you keep walking. you wander down unfamiliar streets, pass strangers ignorant of the storm brewing inside you. every light you pass is too bright, every shadow too dark. your chest burns with grief and guilt and disbelief. you realize that you might never feel safe in his arms again. that maybe you—the you who woke up in that hospital bed, trusting him right off the bat—might be gone forever.

you wanted your old life back. of course you did. but even more than that you wanted your new old life back. the new life where satoru had swooped you up like your very own aladdin, whisking you out into the world on his magical carpet. the new life where he showed you parks and cafés and little corners of the city making new-old memories together.

that life hadn’t existed very long. but at least it had been yours.

and now it was gone too.

an insistent part of you still aches for him—a phantom tug beneath your ribs that confuses and terrifies you. it doesn’t make sense to miss someone who hurt you. it doesn’t make sense to crave the warmth of the same arms that pushed you toward this edge. but you do. you can only fool your mind, not your heart.

for the first time since you woke up, you were truly all alone.

you don’t even realize how long you’ve been walking until your steps slow on their own. something about the space around you feels… familiar. nothing since you've woken up has felt familiar, not even your own boyfriend, but now this does?

you look up.

a fountain gurgles at the center of a bustling square, streetlights casting fractured terracotta across its surface. the noise of passing cars and distant laughter blurs into the background as a sharp sense of déjà vu washes over you. your stomach drops. you’ve seen this before—you're sure of it.

you close your eyes, digging through the fragments of your mind—and then it hits you.

the stupid photograph.

you’re standing in the middle of town square. right in front of the spot where satoru had taken that photo of you—the candid one where you’re smiling at him like he hung the goddamn moon.

for a second, you can’t breathe.

and then you start laughing.

it bubbles out of you explosively, wildly, the sound too loud, so sharp for the late hour and the brokenness of your mind. a couple walking past shoots you an uneasy glance. and someone across the street hesitates before hurrying along, but you couldn't give a fuck about them right now.

you probably look unhinged.

fuck, maybe you are.

because of course, of all the places in this entire city, you ended up here. like the universe decided you hadn’t suffered quite enough and needed to serve you one last punch to the gut. one last reminder of the life you used to live with him.

fine then.

out of pure, exhausted spite, you drop your belongings to the pavement. if the universe wants to mock you, you’ll fucking mock it right back. you sink down against the cool brick wall bordering the square, watching the fountain with exhausted, half-lidded eyes. the same place you once stood smiling. the same place that captured a beautiful moment you can’t even remember feeling.

you pull your knees to your chest and rest your head back against the wall. let this cursed intersection be your bed tonight. let the rough, jagged edges of the brick dig into your spine, let the ghosts of who you were and who you almost became keep their vigil.

your eyelids grow heavy, and the fountain blurs. the lights smear into streaks of gold. and your consciousness slowly slips, slips, slips…

11:57 PM

he hates himself.

he told himself he wouldn't chase after you if you left.

and yet…

he doesn’t sleep. not really.

he sits on the couch with the lights off, elbows on his knees, staring at nothing. he's lost you, again. the first time already felt like his live-beating heart was being violently ripped out of his chest, but this time you've left intentionally,

you chose to leave him. and that destroyed him so much more.

worse even, you were out god-knows-where. all alone. did you even grab a jacket? did you check the weather? did you bring your medication? are you sitting somewhere cold? are you crying?areyousafe?areyou—

by 5 a.m., he’s pacing.

by 6, he’s full on spiraling.

by 7, the sky outside the window has started to pale into that soft gray that comes before sunrise. it's almost morning, surely you should be back by now?

but if you’re stranded out there somewhere, alone, cold, potentially unsafe…

he’s out the door before he even registers it, he checks his phone as he runs down the steps. no reply to the message he sent at 11:57 P.M last night. he cringes remembering it, but he meant every word. he would wait at that fountain all day if that’s what it took, preparing to stay at the town square from the ass crack of dawn until midnight, if need be. but first he needs to search for you.

“think,” he mutters to himself, dragging both palms down his face. “where would she go?”

you don’t remember most places. but there are a handful of spots you’ve reacted to with the subtle shifts in your expression. a random restaurant a few towns away. the beach down south. a hello kitty cafe in osaka. the town square. he opts for that first, since it was the only location in walking-distance proximity.

he doesn't even bother to start up his car, he runs.

the town square is quieter at at seven in the morning, but not empty. the fountain is still running, people are still bustling about, going to their early morning jobs or classes.

and there you remain. curled up against the brick wall like you’ve folded in on yourself. bag at your side. head tilted slightly forward unconsciously, and you were completely still.

it takes satoru a few minutes, but when he sees your form on the ground, he thinks he's hallucinating at first, that surely his mind is playing tricks on him because there was absolutely no way you were actually here, sleeping on the goddamn concrete.

but there was no denying it. it had to be you sitting there. you were in the same outfit that you left in, and he'd recognize your face—albeit half slumped over—anywhere.

it was freezing out here, and you weren't moving. for one terrifying second, your drug-induced, crumpled form flashes across his mind, and satoru's heart stops.

not again.

not again, not again, not—

he’s across the street in an instant. he couldn't give a flying fuck about traffic, someone honks and shouts at him, but he barely hears it. his entire being is dead set on making sure you were alive.

“hey—hey,” he breathes as he drops to his knees in front of you, hands hovering but not touching. “hey. love—”

he cuts himself off this time. your face is pale under the streetlights. lashes resting peacefully against your cheeks. but your chest rises and falls, though slower than he'd prefer.

you were just sleeping. just sleeping. it's okay. you're okay.

he presses a shaking hand over his mouth and bows his head for a second, collecting himself. his whole body feels like it’s vibrating from the adrenaline crash.

“you’re gonna give me a goddamn heart attack one day,” he whispers hoarsely to your unconscious form. “you know that?"

carefully, he shrugs off his coat and drapes it gently over your shoulders like a makeshift blanket. his fingers brush your arm, and even through the fabric, he feels how cold you are.

his jaw tightens. of all the places you could have slept, you chose here?

“I’m so sorry,” he murmurs quietly, barely audible over the rushing of the fountain, not daring to wake you. “for all of it. for before. for now. I don't even know what I could possibly do to begin atoning for all the suffering I've put you through, but I'm sorry.”

he doesn’t attempt to wake you. instead, he sits down on the cold pavement across from you, back against the opposite wall. he keeps his distance from your unconscious form—you asked for space, after all, so he gives it—even here.

but he stays. diligently watching over you and trying his hardest to keep himself from touching you.

after two hours of waiting, you finally open your eyes. blearily taking in your surroundings as the events from the previous day crash into you in full force. your eyelids flutter as you squint against the light, disoriented. it takes a second for your gaze to focus—and when it lands on him, your face immediately falls.

you sit up slowly, wincing. “you followed me?”

he shakes his head, heart feeling like it's beating out of his chest, “I didn’t know you were here.. I just… found you by accident.”

“like hell you did," you bite out, "you definitely hooked my phone up with some tracking shit."

he winces, "what? no—no. check it. I swear to you."

you roll your eyes but reluctantly pull out your phone anyway, tapping in the password as the first—huge text of a notification pops up.

you read it once, then twice. he wonders what's taking you so long—momentarily forgetting all about the text, but then you stare at him, then down at the text, then up at him again. and suddenly your eyes well up with tears.

his face morphs into one of absolute horror, “shit— shit, no, don’t—I’m sorry,” he scrambles, panic flaring. “pretend you didn’t read it, okay? I shouldn’t have sent it. I was out of line—”

“you— you idiot…” you choke out as you push yourself shakily to your feet, fists clenched around your phone. “you said you’d wait here whether I came or not,” you whisper, voice breaking. “you were really going to sit here all day?"

“well.. yeah? that's like.. the absolute least I could do,” he says quietly.

“you think that fixes it?” you demand. “you think punishing yourself fixes what happened?”

“…. no.”

“then why do you keep acting like hurting yourself makes you noble?!”

“why? because all I’ve ever done is hurt you, okay?!” he finally explodes, the words ripping out of him raw and broken. his hands fist in his hair like he’s trying to physically tear the thoughts out of his head. “I always fuck everything up,” he chokes. “every time. I say shit I dont mean, I do shit I can't take back—and you’re the one who always ends up paying for my recklessness.”

his chest rises sharply, like he can’t pull enough air in. “you have no fucking idea how I felt when I saw you right after your accident.” he laughs sharply, a hollow, disgusted sound. “you were so still. so fucking still. and I remember thinking—this is it. this is the ultimate consequence. this is what I did. I thought I killed you.”

his throat works like he’s trying not to be sick. “you might not remember it. shit, maybe you’re lucky you don’t. because I do. I remember all of it. and it’s the only goddamn thing that’s been replaying in my head every. fucking. second.” he continues, like he'll never be able to speak again if he stops, “I wake up and I see you lying there. I close my eyes and I see you lying there. I try to laugh with you and I fucking see you lying there."

he gasps out a sob before continuing, "I stood next to your hospital bed and I realized I'd broken the only person who ever loved me without conditions. I would’ve traded places with you in a heartbeat. I prayed for it. begged for it. I would’ve taken the memory loss and the hospital bed and the pain. anything.”

his eyes finally meet yours, “but then you woke up, and you were so goddamn sweet and forgiving. and I just—I got selfish again. I wanted to keep you in my life, even when I knew I could never give you everything you deserve. I'm a monster, I know. I'm a lesser man than you think I am, sweetheart. I just—" he sighs, "I’m not trying to redeem myself. I’m just trying to make sure you survive me.”

your shoulders shake with the pressure of your sobs, “but I don’t want to survive you,” you cry softly. “I want to love you, is that so hard to wrap your mind around?”

"I—I… what?"

the confusion on his face would almost be funny if you weren’t falling apart piece by piece in front of him.

“I don’t want you to hate yourself,” you whisper, stepping closer despite everything in your body that still aches. “even if I can’t remember who I used to be, I know one thing for sure. that I have never wanted you to feel like this.”

all he can do is stare at you stupidly.

“you’re not a.. a.. curse, satoru, you’re not something I need protection from. so stop acting like loving you is some kind of death row sentence.”

his breathing stutters, "I-I'm sorr—"

“and stop fucking apologizing,” you interrupt, “take all that energy you waste on hating yourself and put it into loving me.”

“… you don’t remember what I did,” he argues weakly, “you don’t remember how bad it got.”

“exactly. I dont remember. if the universe itself is literally giving you a chance to restart, why are you so adamant on punishing yourself?”

“I..I don't know. I'm just so scared of hurting you again,” he admits.

“I’m scared too, but it's okay, we'll figure it out, yeah? just like how we agreed on before.” you whisper.

he steps closer, closing the fragile distance between you. “you're right. I hate how you're always right,” he breathes, forehead almost touching yours, “I’ll go to therapy. I’ll quit drinking—all my bad habits. I’ll do whatever it takes."

tentatively, he lifts his hand, hovering it near your face. he gives you time to pull away, and when you don’t, his fingers brush your cheek, his thumb trembling as it wipes away a tear.

then he kisses you.

your handy muscle memory kicks in after a half second, responding back to his mouth just as eagerly. his lips are warm despite the cold morning air and his hand cups your face more firmly now, the other settling at your waist, pulling you just close enough to feel the frantic rhythm of his heart against yours.

the moment he deepens the kiss, something more than just muscle memory cracks alive inside you. it isn’t a full memory at first. it starts off as a sensation. warmth—his warmth. laughter. his hand in yours —a blurry feeling that snaps your gaze down to your hand currently. it's clutched around nothing. your breath catches against his mouth. then suddenly, a flash.

you’re in the kitchen making your morning teas in your favourite mugs. he’s standing behind you, arms wrapped around your waist while you're failing miserably at pretending to be annoyed. he’s pressing ridiculous kisses to your neck and you’re laughing hysterically, telling him to stop because it tickles.

another flash.

that fountain. the one behind you now. you’re laughing at him while he fumbles with his digital camera, teasing him for taking so long. you look away for just a moment, pointing out a bird in the sky while laughing.

snap. the photo. snap. another memory.

you’re lying sick in bed, your head on his chest, tracing lazy circles over his heartbeat. he’s half-asleep, mumbling something about how he'll buy you more tylenol in the morning, for now you could just pass on the sickness' virus to him and he'd deal with it.

your body jolts back to the present and the kiss falters.

satoru pulls back instantly, panic flashing across his face. “fuck. did I—did I hurt you?”

but you’re not looking at him like you were a few minutes ago. your hand lifts slowly to his face—thumb brushing his cheek like you’ve done it a hundred times before. and you have done it hundreds of time before, you can't even comprehend how you couldn't remember it. how on earth could you forget him? it feels so natural remembering him, like the memory of him was always there but you're just now realizing it.

“satoru…”

he freezes, “yes, love?”

your knees nearly give out before you can get anything out. he catches you instinctively, mind racing through all the possibilities that could be going on right now. what was up with you all of a sudden?

“you—” your voice breaks, “—I remember. I remember you.”

oh.

oh.

he looks like he’s about to shatter on the spot. your fingers fist in his shirt as you kiss him again—harder this time, like you’re trying to chase the rest of the memories down—and it seems to be working, you can vividly feel all of the forgotten scenarios assaulting your brain.

him twirling you in the living room to your favourite songs.

him laying down next to you in bed after a night of intimacy, softly whispering reassurances into your hair.

him taking care of you after you get high as a kite.

him being your lifeline. saving you from drowning during the darkest days of your life.

you pull back, breathing unevenly. “I remember…!” you laugh, "can you believe it? just a few minutes ago I—I… I dont remember everthing, but its enough. more than enough"

he searches your face desperately like he’s afraid this is a dream, like this is another twisted joke as cruel as you losing your memory in the first place.

“you loved me,” you say softly, shocking him out of his reverie.

his eyes fill to the brim with tears instantly.

“I love you,” he corrects, voice breaking.

he pulls you back in, and the next kiss you share feels like home. like coming back to a place your body never truly forgot—even when your mind did.

a/n ; thank you so much for reading guys! sorry for taking so long on this part I was just in a tight academic crunch and totally not procrastinating. hope you all enjoyed :)

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