I just wanted to know why an ant-sized zombie was following me.

"How is he?" You ask the doctor as you wring your hands nervously. Your palms are sweaty, and your heart is beating faster than your normal heart rate. It isn't a good sign, but you don't have time to worry about yourself right now. Considering the situation you're in, you're only concerned about Kevin's well-being. 

The doctor attempts to smile, but despite his seemingly sincere condolences, his tone is perfunctory. "After the accident ... he's received a lot of trauma. Specifically, to his head." He starts to say words you don't understand, and you attempt to comprehend, but it's difficult. There's only a group of words you can make out, words that stick in your mind and make your heart skip many, many beats as you stare, unblinking, at this man, this complete stranger, who is delivering you the most unfortunate news.

"Because of the head trauma he's received, he now has memory loss."

He keeps talking, but you tune out. Memory loss? That's not true. No. Kevin ... he's perfectly fine. He had looked fine this morning, when you had visited him. His chest was rising slowly, proof that he was still alive. He had looked fine. He had looked healthy, despite what he had gone through. He had looked perfectly fine.

But then again, that's what he had looked like the day before the accident occurred.

You wish you had been there. You wish you could have been there to hold him when that stupid car .... no. You can't do that to yourself. You can't waste time wishing you can go back to a past that's inaccessible. You don't have the ability to physically rewind a moment. All you can do is regret, regret not having been there. But even that isn't going to get you anywhere.

"Can I see him?" You whisper, interrupting the doctor. He breaks off, staring at you with eyes that seem too empty, too harsh.

"He's awake, yes," he says, and before he can say anything else, you brush past him and push open the door to Kevin's hospital room.

Light streams in through the sheer curtains that block the sole window. Everything is cast in a cheery ambience, completely contradicting the turmoil you're beginning to feel as you approach Kevin's bed, where he is lying down with his eyes closed. You notice the scratches that mark the backs of his hands, and the jagged scar that runs across his cheek. You take a seat at the chair beside the bed and tentatively reach out to clasp a hand over his own, trying to smile as you watch him slowly open his eyes.

He searches your face for answers, and you can tell by his slightly furrowed brows that he doesn't recognize you. You choke back a sob and grip his hand tighter, even if you know that he might find it uncomfortable, that he might question why a stranger is holding his hand, but it's the only thing you can do. If you let go, right now, of that bandaged hand, you don't think you can forgive yourself.

"Hi," you say quietly. He continues to stare at you, but he doesn't move his hand away. 

"Do I know you?" He croaks, his voice raspy and dry. You look around you and, spotting a bottle of water on a nearby table, you momentarily let go of your grip on him to unscrew the cap on the battle. You hold it up to him, and although he reaches out his hand to take it, you shake your head and lift it to his lips, cradling the back of his head as he raises himself up as much as he can to take a sip of the water. Once he's finished, he lies back down, and you close the water bottle and put it aside. "Thank you," he says, his voice noticeably clearer. "What's your name?"

Your eyes sting with tears, and you blink those petty results of emotions away as you shake your head. "That doesn't matter right now. Are you okay?"

"I don't think so," he laughs a little. He looks down at himself and notices how pitiful his body looks, wrapped up in all those bandages and protected by layers of white blankets. "I was in an accident?"

"Yeah," you say, looking away. Should you be talking about this with him? Is that allowed? Is there a sort of regime you have to follow for trying to comfort a patient who has lost his memories? 

"I must've been doing something stupid," he says bitterly. It hurts your heart to hear him talk like this. He sounds so minuscule, and Kevin ... he's always been the most influential person in your life. Seeing him like this, hearing him talk like this, makes you want to hide. Before, the only place you could hide was in his arms. But how can you hide in the arms of someone who doesn't even know you? 

You shrug as a response. You want to hold him again, to touch those hands, to feel his skin against your own, but you find that you can't reach out. Everything about him is familiar - the way his eyes brighten when he thinks about something, the way he smiles when something simple amuses him, and the way his hair falls over his eyes. But even if you can recognize all those things in a second, he can't recognize a single thing about you, and knowing that fact makes you hesitant to comfort him physically.

"And who are you?" He asks innocently.

You clench your fist. You want to tell him what you are to him, what you had meant to him in the past. You want to ask him if you're still that person to him, but you can't. Not when he looks like this. Not when he's watching you with such new eyes. It feels like going backward, somehow. It's too easy to get lost in the past. And once you're there ... it's hard to get out.

"I'm just here to take care of you," you say, smiling a little. Your heart hurts. It hurts so much. It's never hurt this much before. It feels like there are a million words flying through your head, but you don't have the strength or the will to say them. 

You can't help it; you let a tear fall. And before you know it, more tears fall, down your cheeks, splattering on your knees, and you can't stop them. It's not that you can't; you don't have the will to do it, either. Because it's freeing, in a way, to cry this much, to cry like this in front of Kevin. It's as if you're silently telling him how much this is hurting you, even if it's a selfish thing to want.

Crying has never hurt so much before. And it hurts even more with Kevin just lying there, looking at you with that adorable, concerned face, and he doesn't do anything. Normally, he would. The Kevin you knew would reach out and hold you to his chest, wrap you in the safety of his arms, and whisper words in your ear. But this Kevin - this Kevin that doesn't know you - just stares, looking aghast and at a lost for words.

"I'm sorry," you say, irritated, and wipe your tears away. This is stupid. What are you doing? You're not going to get anywhere with him if you keep going on like this. You can't cry. He doesn't even know why you're crying. He can guess all he wants, but he'll never know. And even if you tell him, he's not going to recall all those memories you have together, of all those laughs you've shared, and those moments you've created. He's not going to recall those awkward times when he had invited you to date with him, or that slow process of his getting to know you. He's not going to remember any of that, even if you tell him every story to the minutest detail. 

He won't remember. And that, in itself, hurts the most.

"Can I say something?" Kevin asks, his voice careful. You look up, your vision blurred by your tears, and give a tiny nod. He clears his throat and says, "I ... I'm sorry. I don't know why you're crying. And I don't really know what I did, what happened to me ... but you're someone important, aren't you? To me." You don't reply, and he continues, "That's the only point I can reach, you know, that you'd be crying so much about me. And ... I can't say that I know ... what it's like to be you right now. But I wanted to tell you that ... well ... I wanted to say, thanks." He smiles, a smile that lights up his face. "Maybe I don't have a right to say this. Because I'm the one who made you cry. But, thanks. For doing that. For crying for me, even if I don't fully understand why. I ... " he trails off, and his eyes become distant. "Nobody has ever done that for me before."

Your heart tightens at this. He's wrong, actually. You've cried for him one other time, a time that's far from his mind. A time he'll never remember. But somehow, when you look at him like that, when you see him smiling at you so innocently, you can't bring yourself to be mad, or upset, or annoyed. Because it's Kevin; sweet, sweet Kevin. He's unsuspecting, and honest, and sincere, and you love him. You loved him then, when he first introduced himself to you. You loved him this morning, when you tried to assure yourself that he would be okay. And you love him now, even if he's looking at you with such unfamiliar eyes.