The building loomed in front of me, old but sturdy, the kind of place where countless lives had unfolded behind closed doors. I climbed the narrow staircase, the sound of my footsteps echoing faintly against the walls, and unlocked the door to the small space that was now mine.
As I stepped inside, the emptiness of the apartment greeted me. Bare walls. A faint smell of dust. A single bed tucked into the corner, a small kitchen counter, and a table too big for one but too small for many. It was nothing compared to the comfort of my parents' or my house, but somehow it suited me, quiet, detached, anonymous.
I dropped my bag onto the chair, the thud echoing louder than I expected. My shoulders sagged. A long sigh escaped me, heavy and tired.
I needed time to think. To breathe.
I didn't want to see anyone right now. Not him. Not Patrick. Not even the friends or colleagues who meant well but always had questions or advice I wasn't ready to hear.
I sat on the edge of the bed and buried my face in my hands. Memories, or the lack of them, haunted me like restless ghosts. A stranger claiming to be my husband. A past I couldn't recall. An ex who refused to vanish. And me, stuck between truths and lies, not knowing which was which.
I lifted my head and stared at the window. Sunlight poured through the thin curtains, illuminating the room, yet inside me, it still felt like night.
"Who am I," I whispered to myself, "if I can't even remember the life I lived?"
The silence of the apartment swallowed my words whole.
In the following days, I stopped searching for truth or fragments of the past. I buried myself in lesson plans, paperwork, and the endless chatter of students who didn't know that their teacher was drowning in silence.
Routine became my shield, and I told myself it was enough. The summer camp occupied my days.
Until the call came.
It was sudden, urgent, the kind of call that makes your pulse skip and your body freeze before your mind can catch up.
"Are you the wife of..."
"Huh?" was all I managed, the word trembling out of my mouth.
"Your husband is in an accident. He's in critical condition, and he needs blood. Can you come?"
My fingers gripped the phone so tightly I thought it might break. For a moment, my mind went blank.
My throat dried.
Husband...
That word again.
"What… what hospital?" I asked, my voice faint.
The answer only made my knees weaken. City X.
Far from here. Far from everything familiar.
And yet, what stunned me even more was the fact that he was only a third-year college student at a prestigious university there. A student. My supposed husband. The puzzle pieces of his life and mine didn't fit, and yet, here I was, standing in the middle of a storm I didn't understand.
I don't know if it was panic, guilt, or something buried in the shadows of my heart, but the next thing I knew, I was booking an immediate flight. I didn't check the ticket price. I didn't pack carefully. I didn't think.
I just went.
Now, I stood at the entrance of the hospital in City X, the glass doors sliding open with a rush of sterile air. My heart pounded against my ribs as I hurried down the halls, following the directions given to me. The sharp scent of antiseptic mixed with the faint trace of fear that seemed to hang over everyone waiting for news.
My parents and I had long been members of the Eagles Club, a nonprofit organization that often partnered with the Red Cross. Because of this, our family's names were on record. Whenever blood was needed urgently, the blood bank responded immediately. It was a privilege of service and of giving, but today it felt like a lifeline I barely understood.
I signed the necessary forms, and the nurses assured me that the blood was on its way to the operating room. And then there I was, standing before the heavy doors marked Operating Room.
The red light above the door glowed steadily, reminding me that inside, life and death were negotiating terms for a man I couldn't even remember.
My legs felt weak, and I leaned against the wall for support. My hands shook despite the cool air-conditioning.
Then it hit me.
I knew nothing about him.
Not his favorite color, not the way he took his coffee, not even how he liked to spend his mornings. I didn't know his dreams, his fears, or what made him laugh.
He was a stranger whose blood now tied to mine, whose life was... at least on paper... entwined with mine. And yet, here I was, my heart aching, terrified at the thought of losing him.
With trembling fingers, I searched for his name. My hands shook so badly I almost dropped my phone, but muscle memory carried me through, those little skills I had honed in the past, my ability to dig, to connect dots, to trace histories through the tangled webs of social media.
And what I found made my stomach drop.
His family. His relatives.
Not strangers, not distant names, but familiar faces already in my circle. They were friends. Followers. Connections I had unconsciously accepted years ago. Their posts mingled with mine, likes and comments intertwining like vines, too natural to be fake.
I scrolled faster, my breath coming in uneven bursts. Then I froze.
A picture.
My parents and I, smiling as though nothing was out of place, were attending a grand celebration, the silver wedding anniversary of his parents. The backdrop was clear, decorated with silver and white balloons, flowers cascading like waterfalls. And there I was, standing among them, looking like I belonged.
But I couldn't remember it.
Not the event. Not the faces. Not even the faintest flicker of the night.
Why?
I scrolled further, my throat tightening. More pictures. Me with his sisters. Not just one, but many. Laughter caught in still frames. Me hugging one of them, another photo of us with drinks in hand, our smiles too real to be staged.
I touched the screen, my fingertip tracing the curve of my own smile in those images. A smile I didn't even remember giving.
"I don't understand…" The words escaped in a whisper.
Why couldn't I remember any of it?
Why did it feel like I had lived another life, one that had been erased from my mind, leaving only photographs as evidence?
My chest ached. My head throbbed. I dropped the phone onto the hospital bench beside me and pressed my palms against my face.
Everything pointed to the truth.
I knew him.
I knew his family.
I was part of their world.
And yet, my memory was a void.
A yawning emptiness swallowed the years between who I thought I was and who I might have been.