#amnesia au

“Hey,” he said softly, standing in the doorway of your hospital room like he wasn’t sure he was allowed in. “How’re you feeling?”

You frowned slightly. “Do I… know you?”

It was subtle—the way his shoulders dropped, the way his jaw tightened—but you saw it. Like something inside him cracked and he was trying to keep it quiet.

“Yeah,” he said after a beat, forcing a small smile. “Yeah, you do.”

You waited. When he didn’t elaborate, your confusion only deepened. “I’m sorry, I—”

“It’s okay,” he cut in quickly, stepping inside. “You don’t have to apologize. Not for this.”

There was something in his voice—gentle, but heavy—that made your chest ache, even though you didn’t understand why.

“I’m Frank,” he said. “Frank Langdon.”

You nodded slowly, the name unfamiliar on your tongue. “I’m…?”

“Y/N,” he answered immediately, like it was second nature. Like he’d said it a thousand times before.

The way he said your name made your stomach twist.

---

Over the next few days, Frank kept showing up.

Not in an overwhelming way—he never pushed, never assumed—but he was always there. Sitting in the chair by your bed, bringing you coffee you didn’t remember liking, talking about small things like the weather or annoying coworkers.

He never said what you were to each other.

And you didn’t ask.

Not at first.

But you noticed things.

Like how he always reached for your hand before stopping himself halfway.

How he knew exactly how you liked your pillow adjusted.

How he looked at you when he thought you weren’t paying attention—like you were something he’d lost once already and wasn’t sure he’d survive losing again.

“Okay,” you finally said one afternoon, watching him peel an orange with careful focus. “You’re either the most dedicated friend I’ve ever had… or something else.”

He stilled.

“Something else?” he echoed.

You shrugged slightly. “You just… don’t look at me like a friend.”

Silence stretched between you.

For a moment, you thought he wouldn’t answer.

Then he set the orange down, wiped his hands on his jeans, and met your eyes.

“I’m your boyfriend,” he said quietly.

The words landed heavy.

“Oh.”

Not rejection. Not acceptance. Just… confusion.

Frank nodded, like he expected that reaction. “We’ve been together a while.”

“I don’t remember any of it.”

“I know.”

God, he knew.

---

After that, things changed.

Not dramatically—but enough.

You started asking questions.

“What’s my favorite movie?”

“What do I hate eating?”

“How did we meet?”

And Frank answered every single one.

“Clueless. You’ve seen it, like, a hundred times.”

“Olives. You say they taste like regret.”

“You yelled at me in the ER for being an ass.”

You blinked. “That sounds like me.”

He huffed out a quiet laugh. “Yeah. It really does.”

Sometimes he’d tell stories.

About late-night takeout after shifts.

About the way you danced in the kitchen even when you were half-asleep.

About how you always stole his hoodies and never gave them back.

“You still have one, actually,” he said once. “At our place.”

“Our place.”

The words made your heart skip.

---

The first time you left the hospital, Frank was the one who picked you up.

You hesitated when you saw his car.

“What’s wrong?” he asked.

“I… was it a car accident?” you said slowly.

His expression shifted, something dark flickering behind his eyes. “Yeah.”

You swallowed. “Was I alone?”

A pause.

Then, quietly, “No.”

Your chest tightened. “You were there?”

He nodded.

“Do you remember it?”

“I remember enough.”

The way he said it told you everything you needed to know.

You didn’t ask more.

---

Being in the apartment felt… strange.

Not unfamiliar, exactly. Just distant. Like a memory you couldn’t quite reach.

But there were pieces of you everywhere.

Photos on the fridge.

Your shoes by the door.

A hoodie—his hoodie—draped over the back of the couch.

“You always leave it there,” Frank said when he noticed you staring. “Drives me insane.”

You smiled faintly. “Maybe I like annoying you.”

“You do.”

There was a softness to the moment.

A quiet.

Then, without thinking, you asked, “Were we happy?”

Frank froze.

Not completely—just enough that you caught it.

“Yeah,” he said after a second. “We were.”

Were.

Not are.

---

Days turned into weeks.

And somewhere along the way, things started to shift.

It wasn’t your memory—it never came back, no matter how hard you tried.

But your feelings…

They grew.

In small, quiet ways.

The way your heart sped up when he walked into a room.

The way you leaned into him without thinking.

The way his voice grounded you when everything else felt uncertain.

One night, you found him asleep on the couch, TV still playing softly.

You stood there for a moment, just watching him.

This man who refused to leave.

Who answered every question.

Who loved you—even when you couldn’t remember loving him back.

Your chest ached.

Slowly, carefully, you sat beside him.

Your movement stirred him awake.

“Hey,” he murmured, blinking up at you. “You okay?”

You nodded.

Then, before you could overthink it, you reached for his hand.

This time, he didn’t pull away.

“I don’t remember you,” you said softly.

His expression flickered—but he nodded. “I know.”

“But…”

You squeezed his hand gently.

“I think I’m falling in love with you.”

The words hung in the air.

For a second, Frank didn’t breathe.

“Again,” you added quietly.

That broke him.

Not in a loud way—but in the way his eyes filled, in the way his grip on your hand tightened like he was anchoring himself.

“Yeah?” he asked, voice rough.

You smiled a little. “Yeah.”

He let out a shaky laugh, dropping his forehead against yours.

“Good,” he whispered. “Because I was gonna keep trying until you did.”

You huffed softly. “That sounds exhausting.”

“Worth it.”

And for the first time since you woke up in that hospital bed, something felt right.

Not remembered.

Not familiar.

Just… real.

"This is the nicest he's ever been about it, though," Wei Qingwei says, and he smiles cheerfully at Shen Qingqiu like the last two sentences spoken didn't just throw him ass-over-kettle into a whole new identity crisis.

He's not sure if he has a qi deviation, or just a good old fashioned blue-screen dissociative episode, but the rest of the peak lord meeting is a blur until it's just him, Yue Qingyuan, and Mu Qingfang left in the room.

Turns out, according to the sect leader and doctor, the transmigration "reveal" talks have happened several times over the years! In fact, the first one was when Yue Qingyuan and Shen Qingqiu were children, and he had confessed to being transmigrated at birth. What?! Then at multiple points throughout disciplehood, and one other instance since ascension, Shen Qingqiu has made the same confession, again and again.

Again and again!

Each time, he insisted that he was a brand new person, a brand new soul, usurping the body's previous owner. Usually, he hardly changed enough to notice a difference.

"Then, I think this time is different. You know I've changed, you know I'm not like the Original Goods," Shen Qingqiu pleads. They're not understanding.

And Mu Qingfang, patiently like they're talking about Shen Qingqiu telling him the symptoms of a cold and not confessing to having possessed their dead martial brother(s?!), nods slowly and says, "You always believe that. Sometimes, it's more the case than others."

"So, Shen Qingqiu has died, what, a dozen times? And just keeps being replaced?" Shen Qingqiu says, aghast.

"Shidi always thinks so," Yue Qingyuan says, and it is not an answer. Certainly not one that satisfied Shen Qingqiu.

Shen Qingqiu is just so sure that they're all lying to themselves, pretending that it's not as horrible as it really is!

He pities them, actually. They just won't face the truth, for some reason clinging to the idea that their awful, scum martial brother is still somehow with them.

For nearly a whole year he pities them. He only stops pitying them when a Without-A-Cure flareup results in a sudden qi deviation and --

...