#new chapter

You laugh before you can stop yourself. It comes out wrong, thin, disbelieving.

“That-that can’t be right,” you say. “I’m his ex-wife.”

Another pause. Longer this time.

“I see,” the woman says gently. “Well, he was brought in earlier today after an accident at work. He’s stable. But he’s experiencing some memory loss, and-”

Your hand curls into the edge of the counter, gripping onto it a little harder than necessary, almost as if you’re hoping it’ll keep you grounded for what's to come next.

“What kind of memory loss?”

“We believe it’s retrograde amnesia. The doctors are still running tests, but from what we can tell… his most recent memories don’t extend past about five years ago.”

Five years.

The word echoes. Hollow. Loud.

“That would place his last clear memories at…” the woman hesitates, checking something, “…just before your divorce.”

The microwave beeps.

You don’t move to turn it off.

You picture Joel as he was then, scruffy, tired, still wearing his wedding ring even when you’d stopped wearing yours. You picture the way he used to lean in doorways, arms crossed, watching you like you were something he might lose if he blinked.

“Has he… has he asked for me?” you ask.

“Yes,” she says. “He woke up about an hour ago. He was confused. When we asked if there was someone he trusted, someone who would know him well, he said your name.”

Your chest aches in a way you thought you’d outgrown.

“He thinks you’re still married,” she adds quietly. “And we didn’t want to contradict him without support present… You see, the brain is a tricky thing, but the doctor can explain everything once you get here.”

Support.

You look around your apartment, your clean lines, your carefully chosen furniture, the life you built brick by brick to get as far away from Texas as possible, to start fresh.

“I live in New York,” you supply.

“That’s okay,” the woman replies. “We just needed to notify you. But… he keeps asking when you’re coming.”

You close your eyes, and your left hand comes up to rub at your eyelids, probably more harshly than you should. It brings black dots swimming over your vision, and all of a sudden, you have a thumping headache sitting right in your temples.

Five years ago, you left with a suitcase and a certainty that you would never go back. Now, the past is calling, and it frustrates you to no end that you even picked up the phone.

“When do you need me there?” you ask.

And that's how you found yourself on the first redeye to Texas. Your seat was stiff, close to the back of the plane, and the crick in your neck would not go away, no matter what you did. You asked yourself over and over why you were even doing this, why you were putting in the effort, why you even cared… but it hit you square in the chest. It was Joel; you were always going to care, no matter what happened five years ago.

The entire flight, you just stared ahead, thoughts racing through your mind. Maybe when you landed, there would be voicemails saying he remembered, that the amnesia was gone, and you could just go home.

But luck was never really on your side.

You powered your phone back on when you landed, and nothing. No messages, no voicemails, just emails relating to work. Thankfully, your boss hadn’t hesitated. Family emergency, you’d said, and she told you to go, no questions, no guilt. You were a hard worker, after all, and even though you insisted you could work remotely on the cases you were actively handling, she still told you to take the time you needed. They could find someone to fill your shoes for the time being.

You hadn’t corrected yourself about it being a family emergency. It was just easier than explaining everything that had happened, and the history was better left buried.

Because Joel wasn’t family anymore.

At least not on paper.

Not since your shaky hand signed those goddamn divorce papers. Not since you last looked Joel in the eyes as you left your lawyer’s office, searching for any ounce of sorrow… but his gaze wouldn’t meet yours.

Good, you had thought then. He doesn’t get the satisfaction.

But your body didn’t seem to know that Joel wasn’t family anymore.

Your heart had been thrumming since the phone call, and those old butterfly feelings were back. Whether it was nervousness or anger, you didn’t know, but you fucking hated it. How could you even let that brooding man have such an effect on you after what he did? How could you still feel anything other than strict hatred after he cheated on you?

And with your best friend at that.

It was honestly one of the worst moments of your life.

You and Joel had already been on the rocks at the time. You were going to couples counseling to try to fix things, but it just wasn’t working. Joel was always mad about how focused and busy you were with work, and you were always picking fights with him over his nightly bar visits. Or maybe it was something small—him tracking dirt through the house with his boots, or you forgetting to clean your hair out of the sink.

It just wasn’t working.

At first, you thought it was just normal bickering, but then it got mean. And one night, things were said that couldn’t be taken back. That pushed Joel to leave with a slam of the door, and left you sitting on the couch crying.

How productive.

Really, you hadn’t meant for it to come to that. It had just been a long day at work, your boss yelling at you for what felt like the eightieth time that week, not getting the case you wanted, and that promotion to partner at the law firm seeming further and further out of reach.

So coming home to an absolute mess of a kitchen, and Joel’s attitude, was what finally sent everything over the edge.

You slipped out of your heels as you closed the door, glancing toward the living room where Joel sat in front of the TV watching the pregame announcers talking about the Cowboys game. It was late, and you had gotten home much later than you’d originally planned. Even from where you were standing, you could tell Joel was pissed. He’d expected you home two hours ago, and the dinner he’d made was sitting on the kitchen counter, cold.

You took a deep breath and made your way over to the couch, plopping down beside him.

“I’m sorry that I’m la—”

“Don’t.”

He cut you off. You bit down on your lower lip, trying to compose yourself before responding.

“Baby, I really am sorry.”

“Really, darlin’? How many times can you be sorry before I actually see a change? What’s the excuse tonight? Some bullshit about your boss again?”

He snapped with a scoff as he rose from the couch, grabbing his plate and carrying it into the kitchen.

“For all I know, you’re probably fucking the guy with how bad you want this promotion,” he added over his shoulder.

You scoffed and followed him.

“Really, Joel? Fuckin’ really?” you threw back, standing on the opposite side of the island as he had his back to you, taking deep breaths.

“You think I’m fucking Larry?” you start, voice already rising, heat already finding its way to your cheeks as you felt the anger creep in. “He’s fuckin’ in his 70s for christs sake, and about to retire. I’m working my ass off to be the one who gets to step up and fill his position. Lord knows we could use the money-”

“Use the money on what? You’re never here to use the money on anything anyway!” he shouted back in his deep southern drawl as he spun around to look at you, letting out a sharp, dry laugh. It came out venomous, like he was ready to attack if you pressed the right buttons, and damn did you want to.

 “You’re always workin’, I don’t even see you anymore. I wake up, go to work, come home, and you’re not here. Most nights I go to bed alone, because you would rather be in that fucking office, slaving away for a guy who just wants to get into your fuckin’ pants,” he added on, placing his hands on his hips as his angry eyes found yours.

“Oh, you’re disgusting, Joel. How can you be this insecure to think that I would sleep with someone in their fuckin elder years? Huh?” You crossed your arms, feeling your nails dig into your biceps slightly as you tried to hold on to the little reserve you had left.

“Me? Insecure? You’re fuckin’ delusional,” he scoffed, walking from the kitchen to the bedroom, where you followed closely behind.

“Delusional? Yeah, maybe, but at least I know I actually have a career worth something, rather than trying to start a fuckin’ company with my deadbeat brother who needs to be bailed out of jail every other night.”

Joel turned around so fast that you almost ran straight into his chest, “That's rich coming from a girl who would do anything to get her Daddy’s attention, and, again, practically fucked her way to the top-”

Crack.

The sound echoed through the bedroom, sharp and violent in the quiet house. Your palm stung instantly, heat blooming across your skin as your hand lingered in the air between you, fingers slightly curled like your body hadn’t quite caught up to what you’d just done.

For a moment, neither of you moved.

Joel’s head had turned slightly with the impact, his jaw tightening as a red mark began to bloom across his cheek. Slowly, almost carefully, he turned his face back toward you. Not angry. Not shocked. Just… tired.

“Jesus Christ,” he muttered under his breath, dragging a hand across his jaw as if testing whether it actually hurt.

Your chest rose and fell too fast as the adrenaline rushed through you. Your fingers trembled slightly as you lowered your hand to your side.

“You don’t get to say that to me,” you said, though most of the bite had drained from your voice. “You don’t get to talk about me like that.”

Joel stared at you for a long moment, his eyes dark and unreadable, something heavy shifting behind them.

“You wanna know the truth?” he said quietly.

You should have walked away then. You knew you should have. But your feet stayed planted where they were, like the floor had nailed you in place.

“The truth is,” he continued, his voice low and steady, “I haven’t had a wife for a long damn time. You stopped being here years ago. You just didn’t notice.”

The words hit harder than the slap.

Your throat tightened instantly. “That’s not fair.”

“Fair?” Joel let out a humorless laugh, shaking his head as he dragged a hand through his hair. “Fair would’ve been my wife giving a shit about this marriage.”

“I do give a shit!” you snapped, the words rushing out before you could stop them. You felt crazy, screaming at the man you once loved more than anything in the world, the same man who now only seemed capable of filling you with shaking rage.

“Do you?” he shot back immediately. “Because from where I’m standing, you gave more of a damn about becoming partner than you ever did about being my wife.”

The accusation landed square in your chest like a physical blow. The anger surged back, hot and familiar.

“You think I work this hard for fun?” you said, your voice trembling with the effort to hold yourself together, tears threatening to spill. “I’m doing it for us, Joel. For our future.”

Joel’s eyebrows lifted slightly.

“What future?”

The question hung in the air between you like a crack running through glass.

He exhaled sharply and ran both hands through his hair before pacing across the room, the worn wood floors creaking under his dirt-caked boots.

“You’re never here,” he continued, his voice quieter now but heavier. “We don’t talk anymore. We don’t eat together. Hell, half the time we don’t even sleep in the same bed.”

Your stomach twisted.

“That’s not because of me,” you said, though the words felt weak the moment they left your mouth.

Joel stopped pacing and slowly turned back toward you, his eyes locking onto yours.

“No?” he said. “Then whose fault is it?”

You swallowed, your throat dry, but the anger pushed forward again. If he could hurt you, you could hurt him too.

“At least I’m trying to build something,” you shot back, crossing your arms tightly over your chest. “What are you doing, Joel? Drinking every night with your brother and pretending that stupid company of yours is ever going to take off?”

His expression hardened instantly, the muscles in his jaw tightening.

“You know what?” he said quietly. “At least when I’m at the bar, someone actually wants to talk to me.”

The words landed deep.

“That’s pathetic,” you said, though your voice lacked the confidence you wanted it to have.

Joel shrugged slightly, his shoulders lifting before falling again. “Maybe,” he said. “But at least they look at me like I matter.”

Silence fell between you, heavy, ugly, the kind that made the room feel smaller.

Joel rubbed the back of his neck, his gaze dropping briefly to the floor before lifting again.

“I don’t think you’ve loved me for a long time.”

The words knocked the air out of your lungs.

“You’re wrong,” you whispered, your eyes burning.

Joel shook his head slowly, the movement tired and resigned. “No,” he said quietly. “I think I just admitted it before you did.”

He grabbed his coat from the closet and shrugged it on quickly before heading for the door. The slam echoed through the house as he left.

Three hours later, you were still sitting there, the silence of the house pressing in on you. The silence nearly suffocating. The fridges hum, the clock ticking on the wall, the lull of commentary from the Cowboys game that Joel was watching… Waiting had started to feel pathetic.

So, fuck it.

If Joel wasn’t coming home, you knew exactly where he’d be.

The Bison.

You didn’t bother changing. You just slipped on a pair of dirty sneakers, grabbed your keys, and headed out. The drive was quiet, the kind that let your thoughts get too loud. You rehearsed what you were going to say in your head, even muttering pieces of it out loud to make sure it didn’t come out wrong. The last thing you wanted was to sound like an idiot, or worse, a complete dick.

The time alone had helped you calm down. The anger had burned itself out somewhere between pacing the living room and staring at the clock for the better part of three hours. Now you could actually think.

Maybe you had overreacted a little.

You were tired. That was the truth of it. Tired of the stress, tired of the long days, tired of feeling like everything in your life was constantly hanging by a thread. And if you were being honest with yourself, you missed Joel. You missed what things used to feel like between the two of you.

Things didn’t have to stay like this.

Cutting back on your hours would help. You could step away from the office more, actually be home for dinner again, and spend time together like you used to. Hell, maybe you could even start talking seriously about the family you’d both been dancing around for the last year.

It hadn’t always been like this.

Just a year ago, the two of you had been good. Happy, even. But the pressure of money started creeping in, and the hours at work kept piling up. One late night turned into two, then three, then suddenly you were barely home at all. Somewhere along the way, you’d turned into someone you didn’t even recognize anymore.

Getting the promotion at the firm would be nice.

But saving your marriage was better.

And why it took you this long to realize that, you didn’t know. But better now than never.

The Bison’s parking lot was already packed when you pulled in. Of course it was. The fucking Cowboys were playing.

When you stepped out of the car, you could already hear the roar of the crowd spilling out through the bar’s front doors. Cheers, shouting, the muffled echo of the game blasting from the televisions inside.

You made your way toward the entrance.

The second you opened the door, the noise hit you.

The Bison smelled like cheap beer, fried food, and too many sweaty bodies packed into one place. Every TV in the bar was tuned to the game, the crowd erupting in cheers as the Cowboys pushed down the field. Glasses clinked, someone whooped near the bar, and the bartender shouted something you couldn’t make out over the noise.

You hesitated just inside the doorway, letting your eyes adjust to the dim lighting as you scanned the room.

Joel had to be here; he was always here on game nights.

You pushed your way through the crowd, squeezing past groups of guys in jerseys and women perched on barstools. Someone bumped into your shoulder, sloshing beer onto the floor.

“Watch it,” someone muttered.

You ignored it, craning your neck to see over the crowd.

Then a voice came from your left.

“Well damn,” a guy slurred from a high-top table. “Did someone get lost?”

His friends laughed.

You kept walking.

“Hey, sweetheart,” he called after you again, louder this time. “Cowboys are playin’, come sit on my lap and make me a cowboy!”

You didn’t even bother looking at him. Your eyes were still scanning the room, searching past the bar, past the dart boards, toward the booths lining the back wall.

Joel usually sat back there. At least you both used to on late nights after a date or just a hard day at work.

Your heart started beating faster the closer you got.

Maybe he’d cooled off. Maybe he’d be sitting there with a beer, sulking like he always did when the two of you fought. Maybe you’d slide into the booth across from him and say what you’d practiced in the car. Maybe the two of you would finally talk. Maybe things could still be fixed.

You slowed as you reached the back of the bar, your eyes drifting across the booths.

One booth held a group of college kids yelling at the TV.

Another had two older men arguing over a play.

Then the corner booth.

At first, you only noticed the boots. Joel’s boots.

You knew them instantly, scuffed leather, the same pair he wore nearly every day.

Relief rushed through you so fast it almost made you dizzy.

See? you thought. Of course, he’s here. You’re being dramatic.

You took a step closer, and that’s when you saw her.

She was half in his lap, her hand tangled in the back of his hair as she leaned across the booth. Joel’s hand was on her waist, pulling her in as their mouths pressed together like they had nothing else to do in the world.

For a second, your brain refused to process what you were looking at. The noise of the bar faded into a dull roar in your ears, then the girl shifted slightly, and her face came into full view.

Familiar, too familiar, your stomach dropped, because you knew her.

For a moment, your brain refused to place the face, as if it were trying to spare yourself the answer. But then the girl shifted slightly, brushing Joel’s cheek as she leaned back just enough to laugh at something he’d said.

And there it was.

Claire.

Your best friend. The girl who took you to the bars on nights when you were studying too hard. The girl who cried on your shoulder after her first real heartbreak. The girl you have known since middle school. The girl who was now holding the knife she just used to stab you in the back.

The noise of the bar faded into a dull roar in your ears. The televisions were still blaring, people still shouting at the game, glasses clinking somewhere behind you, but it all sounded distant, like you were hearing it from underwater.

Joel noticed you first.

His eyes flicked up over Claire’s shoulder, and the moment he saw you standing there, they widened. His body went rigid beneath her.

Claire didn’t notice right away. She was still half draped across him, one hand tangled loosely in the back of his hair, the other resting against his chest, lips still roaming along his jaw.

“Joel?” you said.

Your voice came out quieter than you expected, almost swallowed by the noise around you.

Claire turned, and the smile on her face disappeared the moment she saw you.

For a second, none of you moved.

Joel’s hand slipped quickly from her waist like he’d just realized it was there. His eyes were dark and heavy, like he’d almost been here before. Had this happened before? Had he fucked her already?

“Hey-” he started, already pushing himself up from the booth. “This isn’t-”

You let out a short laugh, not amused, not angry.

Just… disbelieving.

“Really?” you said flatly.

Joel ran a hand through his hair, panic flashing across his face as he stepped out of the booth. “She-she came onto me, I didn’t-”

You scoffed softly and shook your head.

“Right.”

Your eyes slid to Claire, lingering on her for a long moment. She didn’t say anything, just watched you with wide eyes like she was the one who’d been caught in the middle of something terrible. You gave a small, incredulous shake of your head.

“Really?”

You didn’t wait for an answer.

You turned and pushed your way out of the bar, the cold night air hitting your face as soon as the door swung open. Your hands were already shaking as you crossed the parking lot, digging your keys from your pocket and fumbling with them as you reached your car.

Behind you, the bar door burst open again.

“Hey, wait!”

Claire.

Of course.

You turned just as she hurried across the lot toward you, her heels clicking against the pavement. She slowed when she reached you, reaching out gently to grab your arm.

“Please just listen for a second,” she said softly.

You looked down at her hand on your arm before meeting her eyes. Your best friend. The girl who had cried on your couch over bad boyfriends. The girl who had stood beside you at your wedding, holding your bouquet while you fixed your veil.

“What?” you said, cold, wanting to get out of there, and also wanting to slap the taste out of her mouth. The rage from earlier was slowly creeping back in.

Claire’s grip loosened slightly. She glanced back toward the bar door, then back at you again. “I didn’t want you to find out like that,” she said with a coy smirk.

Your stomach twisted, “What are you talking about?”

Claire hesitated just long enough to make it look like the words were hard to say, then she sighed.

“Joel and I… this wasn’t the first time.”

The words landed slowly, like they needed a second to sink in.

“We’ve been fooling around for a while,” she continued, her voice overly smooth. “I kept telling him we needed to tell you, but he didn’t want to hurt you.”

She shook her head slightly, almost tauntingly as she sucked her teeth, “I guess he was never going to.”

Something inside your chest cracked. You didn’t yell. Didn’t cry. Didn’t even argue. You just nodded once, like everything suddenly made sense.

“Okay,” you said quietly.

Claire’s expression stayed hardened, like she expected you to fall apart. “I’m really sorry,” she added, a sly smirk making her way to her lips as she shrugged.

But you were already opening your car door.

You slid into the driver’s seat and slammed it shut before she could say anything else. Your hands were still shaking as you started the engine.

Behind you, the bar door burst open again.

Joel.

You saw him in the rearview mirror as he ran out into the parking lot, scanning the rows of cars until his eyes landed on yours.

He started toward you immediately.

“Wait!” he shouted.

Your foot hit the gas.

The tires crunched against gravel as you pulled out of the lot. In the rearview mirror, Joel slowed to a stop in the glow of the neon bar sign, one hand dragging through his hair as he shouted something you couldn’t hear.

He got smaller.

And smaller.

Until he disappeared completely.

Sometimes it still felt like you could see him in the rearview mirror like that, even now as you drove toward the hospital.

The ride had been silent. No radio, no podcasts, just you and the steady hum of the road beneath the tires while your thoughts circled endlessly.

You hadn’t seen Joel since the day you signed the papers and left for New York.

Would he look different now?

Would there be grey threaded through his dark hair? Would the Texas sun have left his skin tanner, rougher? Maybe he’d gotten leaner. Harder. Maybe time had carved new lines into his face the way it had yours.

And his voice…

Would it still sound the same? That southern drawl that had always been the perfect mix of rough and smooth, the one that used to make your stomach flip the first time he said your name.

Or would it be different now? Deeper somehow. Sharper. Filled with anger and years of things left unsaid.

You pulled into the hospital parking lot almost on autopilot, barely registering that you had arrived until the engine clicked softly as you turned it off. For a moment, you just sat there, picking at your nails while you worked up the courage to go inside.

Eventually, you opened the car door.

Heat pressed in immediately, heavy and familiar in a way that made your chest tighten. Texas didn’t ease into you the way New York did; it announced itself. The air smelled faintly of asphalt and something green, maybe fresh-cut grass, and for a second, you just stood there with your keys dangling loosely from your fingers, letting the reality of where you were sink in.

You shut the door and turned toward the building.

The hospital rose in front of you, all glass and pale stone, the early morning sun glaring off the windows so brightly you had to squint. It looked clean. Neutral. Like nothing bad could ever happen inside it.

Like it wasn’t holding someone who once knew you better than anyone else.

The automatic doors slid open with a soft hiss, and the blast of air-conditioning hit you hard enough to make you shiver.

The smell came first—sterile and sharp, tinged with something faintly metallic that clung to the back of your throat. Your shoes squeaked softly against the polished floor as you stepped into the lobby, the sound embarrassingly loud in the open space.

People moved around you with purpose. A nurse hurried past, her ponytail swinging behind her. A man in scrubs laughed quietly into his phone. A couple sat close together near the wall, their heads bowed toward each other.

Everyone looked like they belonged here.

You didn’t.

You paused just inside the entrance, suddenly unsure what to do with your hands. Your heart hammered against your ribs as you glanced down at your phone out of habit, hoping that there would be a phone call or a text saying that this was all some cruel joke. Still nothing.

You shoved it back into your bag before you could check again.

Information Desk, a sign read, with an arrow pointing left.

You follow the sign, your legs carrying you forward before your mind has fully caught up. The lobby feels larger the farther you move into it, the ceiling high and echoing with the muted shuffle of footsteps and the low murmur of voices. When you reach the information desk, the woman behind the counter glances up from her computer. Her smile is the kind that feels practiced but sincere, the quiet professionalism of someone who spends her days guiding people through moments they’d rather not be having.

“Hi,” she says gently. “Can I help you?”

Your throat tightens before the words can reach it.

“Yes,” you manage after a moment. “I’m here to see someone. Joel Miller.”

His name feels strange leaving your mouth after all this time. Too personal. Too familiar. As if saying it out loud exposes something you’d meant to keep buried.

The woman’s fingers move across the keyboard, her nails tapping softly against the keys. The sound fills the brief silence between you, each second stretching longer than it should.

“Date of birth?”

You answer immediately. The numbers come easily, instinctively, something you’ve written down on forms and paperwork so many times they exist somewhere in muscle memory. Your voice remains steady despite the weight of it.

“And your relationship?”

The question lands heavier.

It’s simple. Routine. Something she probably asks a hundred times a day.

Still, your mouth opens and then stalls.

“I’m his-”

The sentence falters. The word ex presses against the back of your teeth, precise and painful in its accuracy. You swallow hard, forcing it down.

“…wife,” you say instead.

The lie sits between you.

She doesn’t blink. Doesn’t question it. Just nods once, as though it fits neatly into whatever quiet category she’s placed you in.

“He’s on the fourth floor,” she says, her voice warm but efficient. “Room 412. Visiting hours are open right now. The elevators are just past the gift shop.”

“Thank you,” you murmur.

You turn away before she can say anything else, afraid that if you linger, she might offer something sympathetic—something gentle enough to break whatever fragile composure you’ve managed to hold together.

The gift shop sits just off the corridor, spilling the faint scent of coffee and artificial lilies into the hallway. Shelves of stuffed animals, greeting cards, and overly cheerful balloons blur together as you pass, but you don’t slow down long enough to actually see any of it. The elevator doors glide open as you approach, and you step inside without company.

The ride upward unfolds in silence, broken only by the low mechanical hum of the elevator cables working somewhere above you. You watch the digital numbers illuminate one by one, each floor punctuating the climb with a soft chime.

Two.

Three.

Four.

The doors slide apart.

The hallway on the fourth floor feels quieter than the lobby below, the lighting softer and dimmer, casting everything in a muted yellow glow. The air here carries the same sterile sharpness, but heavier somehow, thick with the steady rhythm of machines beeping behind closed doors and the faint murmur of a television somewhere farther down the corridor.

You move slowly down the hall, your eyes tracing the numbers beside each door as you pass. Your footsteps fall carefully against the polished tile, measured and deliberate, like you’re trying not to disturb the quiet that hangs over the floor.

410

411

Your breath catches in your chest.

412

You stop in front of the door.

Your hand lifts, hovering just short of the doorframe. Your pulse pounds so loudly in your ears you’re half convinced it must be echoing down the corridor. Five years. This is the closest you’ve been to him in five years.

You draw in a slow breath, steadying yourself, then push the door open before you can talk yourself out of it.

The room is brighter than the hallway outside, sunlight filtering through a narrow window and spilling across the floor in pale, slanted bands. The quiet hum of hospital equipment fills the space, machines breathing softly beside the bed while a monitor ticks along in steady rhythm, as though keeping time for him. The air smells aggressively clean, that sharp antiseptic scent that seems determined to erase whatever happened here.

Joel is sitting upright in the bed.

At first, he doesn’t notice you.

His gaze is fixed on his hands resting in his lap, turning them slowly beneath the light as though he’s trying to decipher something written in the creases of his palms. A thick bandage wraps around his head, stark white against his dark hair, and a bruise spreads along his temple, yellowing at the edges where it’s beginning to fade. He looks thinner than you remember. Not fragile, exactly, just worn down, like something inside him has been rattled loose.

Then he lifts his head. His eyes land on you. And everything inside your chest collapses inward.

There’s no hesitation in his expression. No flicker of confusion. He doesn’t study your face the way a stranger might, searching for recognition.

It finds him instantly. Easily. Devastatingly.

“Hey, sweetheart,” he says softly.

The words land somewhere deep in your chest, stirring memories you thought you’d buried years ago. It’s the same way he used to say it when you came home late from work, when you’d step through the front door, and he’d glance up from wherever he was sitting, looking at you like he’d been waiting without realizing it.

Your breath falters.

Sweetheart.

You hadn’t heard that word in years… Hadn’t been called it in years.

Across the room, Joel’s entire posture loosens. His shoulders sink as though some invisible tension has finally slipped from them, like the strings cut from a puppet, relief spreading openly across his face. It’s warm. Immediate. Unmistakable.

“You’re here,” he says.

The simple statement lands harder than you expect.

Without meaning to, you take a step farther into the room, your body moving before your thoughts can catch up with it.

“Yeah,” you manage after a moment. “I’m here.”

His gaze follows you carefully, tracking every small movement as if he’s afraid you might disappear if he looks away. There’s something disarmingly soft in his expression, a tenderness that makes your chest tighten, like he’s committing you to memory all over again.

“I knew you would,” he says with quiet certainty, as though your presence had never once been in doubt.

Your fingers curl slowly into your palm.

“They kept askin’ if there was anyone else they should call,” he continues, his voice still easy, still calm. “I told ’em no. Just you.”

You nod automatically, even as the truth presses painfully against your ribs.

His smile deepens, reassured by the gesture.

“Didn’t like the idea of wakin’ up without you.”

The words land square in your chest, knocking the air from your lungs. He doesn’t notice the way your shoulders stiffen or the careful effort it takes to keep your expression composed. Joel only looks relieved, anchored, somehow steadied by the simple fact that you’re standing there.

“Yeah…” you let out a soft chuckle, “Sorry, it was a long flight…”

Joel nods while he shifts slightly against the pillows, a faint wince crossing his face as he lifts a hand toward the bandage wrapped around his head before letting it fall back to the sheets.

“Tommy’s been here most of the night,” he says casually, like the detail barely matters. “Wouldn’t leave. Guess he finally stepped out to get coffee.” One corner of his mouth lifts in a tired half-smile. “Said the stuff here tastes like burnt dirt.”

That sounds exactly like Tommy.

“Oh,” you say quietly. “Okay.”

“He knows you were comin’, though,” Joel adds, glancing back at you. “Seemed real relieved when I told him.”

You nod again, though you aren’t entirely sure what you’re nodding to. The words settle heavily in your chest, another quiet weight you’re not prepared to carry.

“He okay?” you ask after a moment, choosing your words carefully. “Tommy, I mean.”

Joel lets out a soft huff of amusement. “Yeah. Just… hoverin’. Kept actin’ like I was gonna forget my own name.”

If only he knew.

Joel’s gaze drifts back to you then, more thoughtful this time. A faint crease forms between his brows as he studies your face, something quietly uncertain flickering behind his eyes.

“You said long flight,” he says slowly.

Your stomach tightens.

“Yeah.”

He frowns, not with suspicion, but with the mild confusion of someone trying to piece together something that doesn’t quite make sense.

“Why’d you fly?”

The question is gentle. It still lands like a bruise. Well fuck, how were you going to get out of this?

“What do you mean?” you ask slowly.

“Well…” His gaze drifts briefly toward the window, hand rubbing at his stubble, like the answer might be waiting somewhere outside. “You would’ve just driven. It’s only like thirty minutes.”

Your hands tighten together in your lap.

“I thought you were at the house,” he continues, his voice quieter now, softer in a way that makes your chest ache. “Figured you’d walk in complainin’ about traffic, ask if I ate yet.” A chuckle breaks free from his chest, his eyes squinting as he tries to solve the puzzle in his head.

The image forms instantly in your mind, so ordinary, so familiar it almost steals the air from your lungs.

“I didn’t realize you were that far, whe-” he murmurs, pausing himself as he looks around confused, “Where were you?” the thought still sounding like it arrived only halfway formed. “How long were you on the plane?”

“About four hours.”

Joel goes very still.

Four hours is too long to brush aside, too long to tuck neatly into the explanation he’s been building in his head.

“That… doesn’t make sense,” he says quietly, the words drifting out more to himself than to you. “You hate flyin’. Only do it if you absolutely have to.”

Of course he remembers that.

His gaze lifts again, settling on your face with a new kind of focus, not suspicious, not accusing, just searching, like he’s trying to assemble a picture with pieces that refuse to cooperate.

“Where were you comin’ from?” he pushes gently after you don’t answer right away.

Before you can muster up an answer, find some form of excuse to spill,  the door swings open.

“Alright,” Tommy’s voice cuts through the room, gravelly and familiar. “I swear they make this shit by runnin’ it through a sock.”

He stops short when he sees you.

For a brief moment, the entire room seems to pause, the quiet hum of machines suddenly louder in the silence.

Then recognition settles over his face, followed by something softer, relief, maybe, though it carries a heavier weight behind it.

“Hey,” Tommy says, his voice dropping as you both exchange a look.

“Hey,” you answer.

Joel glances between the two of you, a faint smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

“Took you long enough,” he tells his brother. “She just got here.”

Tommy nods slowly as he steps farther into the room, the paper coffee cup still warm in his hand.

“Yeah,” he says. “I know.”

But his eyes never leave yours.

There’s something in them, steady, apologetic, burdened with a knowledge Joel no longer carries.

And standing there, caught between the man who looks at you like nothing in the world ever broke between you and the one who remembers exactly how it did, you realize something with a slow, sinking clarity.

Joel has no idea you ever left.

You aren’t the only one holding the truth anymore.

The door opens again, this time with a softer, more clinical presence. A man in a white coat steps inside, a clipboard tucked beneath his arm as his eyes move quickly around the room before settling on Joel.

“Mr. Miller?” he asks.

Joel straightens immediately, shoulders tightening. “Yeah. That’s me.”

“I’m Dr. Anders,” the man says, voice calm and measured. “I understand you sustained a concussion at work today. First, I want to reassure you, you’re stable. There’s no internal bleeding and no life-threatening injuries.” He gestures briefly toward the bed. “The head trauma caused a concussion, and you’ve got a mild fracture in your left tibia. We’ve already set it and placed a cast. Orthopedics will take another look before you’re discharged and set up a physical therapy schedule for you.”

Joel glances down, like he’s just now remembering his body belongs to him. The blanket shifts slightly, revealing the thick gray cast extending from just below his knee to his ankle.

“Huh,” he mutters, flexing his fingers against the sheets. “That explains why it feels like someone took a golf club to it.”

Dr.Anders nods once, keeping his attention on Joel. “Because of the concussion, you’re also experiencing retrograde amnesia. That means your memory of the time leading up to the accident, and possibly a longer period before that, may be temporarily lost.” The doctors voice is calm, almost like he’s approaching a startled horse, not wanting to spook it further.

Joel’s brow furrows, his hand twitching toward the bandage wrapped around his head, moving downwards to rub at his eyes, like he’s trying to put a puzzle together that only he can see. “How long? How much did I… lose?”

“That’s difficult to predict,” Dr. Anders says carefully. “Memories may return gradually, all at once, or, in some cases, not fully. What’s most important right now is that you don’t try to force them. Straining to remember can actually make the condition worse.”

Joel shifts slightly, then winces as his casted leg moves beneath the blanket.

“I… I want to know,” he says. “I need to know what I missed. Everything. Did anything happen? Did anyone… anyone important… pass? Ma? Pa?”

“No, no,” Tommy assures gently, “Ma and Pa are still good, just maybe a lil’ older than you remember,” he lets out with a forced chuckle as he rubs at the scruff on his face.

Joel shifts slightly in the bed, adjusting his weight without thinking. The movement is small, but the second his injured leg moves beneath the blanket, his face tightens.

“Jesus-”

He exhales sharply through his teeth and glances down, like he’s just remembered something is wrong with his body. The blanket has slipped just enough to reveal the thick gray cast running from below his knee to his ankle. Joel stares at it for a moment.

Tommy snorts quietly from where he’s leaning against the wall. “You fell off a scaffold, man. You should feel hella lucky right now.”

Joel glances between the two of you, still trying to piece together the edges of his reality. His hand moves carefully toward the cast, fingers brushing along the hard plaster like he’s checking to see if it’s real.

“Scaffold,” he repeats slowly.

Dr. Anders nods, “About ten to twelve feet, from what your coworkers told us. You were unconscious for a short period of time, which is likely what caused the concussion.”

Joel leans back against the pillows again, staring up at the ceiling for a moment as he processes everything.

“Head’s foggy,” Joel admits, rubbing absently at the edge of the bandage on the side of his temple again.

“That’s normal,” Dr. Anders replies evenly. “You’ll likely experience headaches, fatigue, and confusion for a few days. The most important thing right now is rest.”

Joel nods, though his attention has already drifted elsewhere. His gaze finds you again, lingering in a way that makes your chest tighten.

There’s something unsettling about it to you, the way he looks at you like you’re the only stable thing left in a world that suddenly stopped making sense.

Dr. Anders notices it too.

His eyes flick briefly between the two of you before he clears his throat and straightens slightly.

“Joel, I want you to focus on resting for the next few days, alright?” he says gently. “I’m going to step out into the hallway with your family for a moment and go over the details of your recovery plan with them. We’ll make sure everything is set up so you have the help you need while you’re healing.”

Joel glances between you and Tommy, then gives a small, tired nod.

“Alright.”

Dr. Anders opens the door and gestures politely toward the hall.

“If you two wouldn’t mind.”

You push yourself out of the chair, Tommy following a step behind as the three of you slip into the quiet corridor. The door closes softly behind you, the muffled hum of Joel’s monitors fading as the fluorescent lights overhead take their place.

Dr. Anders exhales quietly, leaning back against the wall for a moment as if organizing his thoughts.

“We need to be mindful that Joel is dealing with both a concussion and retrograde amnesia,” he begins carefully. “His brain is essentially trying to rebuild connections. If we push too hard—or introduce emotionally distressing information too quickly, it can interfere with that process. In some cases, it can delay the return of memories for months, maybe years.”

He pauses, choosing his next words with care before looking directly at you.

“For example… his relationship with you.”

Your stomach twists.

“Joel currently believes you’re still married,” Dr. Anders continues. “For the time being, it would be best not to challenge that assumption. Speak to him as his wife. Treat things as normally as possible.”

Your stomach drops.

“Wait,” you say slowly. “You’re telling me to lie to him? Pretend we’re married?”

“Yes,” Dr. Anders replies, calm but unwavering. “For the time being. Joel trusts you, and right now that trust is incredibly important. It gives him a sense of stability. If he’s suddenly confronted with information that contradicts what he believes, especially something emotionally significant, it could create stress that interferes with his recovery.”

Your jaw tightens.

“So it’s all on me,” you murmur, staring down at the polished hospital floor. “I’m the one keeping him stable… by pretending to still be his wife.”

Dr. Anders doesn’t argue.

“I understand how unfair that sounds,” he says gently. “But in the state he’s in, you are the most familiar and emotionally grounding presence he has. Right now, you’re his anchor, even if he doesn’t fully realize it.”

He glances briefly toward Joel’s room before continuing.

“There’s also the matter of his leg. The fracture means he’ll be on crutches for several weeks, possibly longer, depending on how the bone heals. Combined with the concussion, he shouldn’t be living alone or moving around without help for a while. Someone will need to assist him at home, getting around, monitoring symptoms, making sure he doesn’t push himself too quickly.”

Tommy exhales slowly beside you.

“Yeah,” he mutters. “And that someone sure as hell ain’t me.”

Dr. Anders turns toward him.

Tommy rubs the back of his neck, already looking apologetic. “My wife’s eight months pregnant. She’d kill me if I disappeared for a few weeks to babysit my stubborn older brother.”

Your chest tightens.

“So that leaves…” Tommy gestures vaguely between the two of you.

You.

A bitter breath escapes before you can stop it.

“Unbelievable,” you mutter.

Five years. Five years spent building something separate from Joel. A different city, a different routine, a different life entirely. You had finally learned how to exist without him in it. And now you’re supposed to step right back into the role you fought so hard to leave behind. As if none of those years ever happened. As if you never signed the papers and walked away.

Just… step back in and pretend. Just for him.

Tommy gives you a small, sympathetic nod, but it does nothing to quiet the storm inside your chest.

You’re not fine. You shouldn’t have to be fine.

But if you walk away… he could get worse.

And somehow, after everything, you still care enough not to let that happen.

You straighten slowly, shoulders squaring as you force your hands to unclench.

“Fine,” you say at last, your voice low and tight with restraint. “I’ll do it. But don’t pretend that makes this okay.”

Dr. Anders nods once, solemn.

“I don’t expect it to feel fair,” he says. “But you’re doing the best thing for Joel right now. The most important thing is patience. Let his memories return naturally. Don’t push him to remember, and don’t overwhelm him with information. His brain needs time.”

Tommy shifts beside you, his voice softer now.

“We’ll get through this,” he says quietly. “Just… take it one day at a time.”

He pauses, then adds with a small, almost apologetic shrug, “It’s good to have you back. Even if the circumstances are pretty damn terrible.”

You give him a stiff nod, then turn back toward Joel’s room.

Your chest feels heavy as you walk down the hallway, every step pulling you closer to a life you thought you’d buried years ago.

A lie. That’s what this is now. A carefully maintained illusion for the man who once shattered everything you had together. And the worst part, the part you don’t dare say out loud, is that beneath the anger, beneath the resentment, beneath the years of distance…

A small, stubborn part of you still wants to be there for him.

Even if pretending doesn’t just break your heart. Even if it slowly kills you to do it.

You push the door open, the soft click of the latch announcing your return. Joel’s head lifts, dark eyes tracking you immediately, alert but not tense.

“Hey,” you murmur, stepping closer.

Joel props himself up slightly, a small wince escaping his mouth, a forced crooked grin tugging at his lips. “There she is. What’d he say?”

“I… talked to the doctor,” you say carefully, “He wants you to rest, but… I’m gonna go home and grab some things for you. Stuff you might need when you’re ready to leave.”

Joel quirks an eyebrow, still grinning. “Stuff, huh? You packing my royal necessities?” His tone is teasing, light, like he’s trying to make the hospital feel a little less serious.

“Yes,” you say softly, a gentle chuckle and smile forcing its way out. “The essentials for surviving with Joel Miller…”

“Right,” he mutters, shaking his head, amused. Then he leans back slightly, eyes narrowing playfully. “But before you go… can I get a kiss?”

You freeze. Your chest tightens, stomach coiling. A kiss. Here. Now. With him like this.

“I don’t want to hurt you,” you say. It’s a lame excuse, but god, you’re hoping it works. Twenty-four hours ago, you wouldn’t have imagined being in the same state as Joel, and now, here you were, trying to get out of kissing him.

“Hurt me? C’mon, I hit my head, didn’t break my neck.”

And damn, if that wasn’t a good argument.

Joel watches you patiently, that familiar spark in his eyes making it impossible to resist. After a long beat, you lean in and give him a tiny, careful peck.

He blinks, a mischievous glint in his eye, and quips, “That’s it? That’s all you’re gonna give me?” He asks, going to grab your wrist to pull you back in.

You bite back a nervous laugh as you evade his grip, “That’s… enough,” you murmur, cheeks warming, lips still tingling from where the other man’s were moments ago.

Joel shakes his head, grinning wider now, clearly enjoying himself. “Damn. You’ve gone stingy on me,” he teases. “I know you’re more generous than that. Is it the bandage? Is it a turnoff?”

You can’t help the laugh that escapes, despite the tension in your chest. Even pretending, he still has that way of drawing you in.

“No, it’s not the bandage… Just get some rest, I’ll be back before you know it.”

Joel settles back against the pillows, surrendering to the fight,  hands behind his head, eyes following you. “Okay, go then. But don’t take too long. You know I get bored when I’m stuck somewhere with nothing to do.” He winks, light and playful, like he’s still your Joel, the same man you remember.

“I’ll miss you,” he added, and just like that, the air from your lungs was gone.

You nod, turning towards the door slowly,  gripping your purse strap. One last glance at him, grinning softly in that rugged, familiar way, and you step out of the room, heart tight, chest heavy, but knowing this little spark of playfulness makes the lie a little easier to bear… for now.

The door closes softly behind you.

Inside the room, Joel watches the door for a long moment after you leave, and the smile fades slowly from his face.

divider cred: @/dividers-are-us

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