The morning light was softer today, not pale and cautious like yesterday, but gentle and steady, slipping through the half-open blinds. It made the hospital room feel less sterile, less like a waiting room for tragedy. Still, Iris didn't move immediately. Her body felt heavy, but her mind felt heavier.
She lay in bed, tracing the outline of the ceiling tiles, noticing a new crack she hadn't seen before. Small details always seemed to matter now, like her brain was desperate to anchor itself to something real.
The chair beside her bed creaked softly, and she turned to see Noah already there, sitting quietly with a thermos in his hands. His jacket was draped over the back again, still smelling faintly of rain from yesterday. He looked tired always like he hadn't slept enough but he forced a small, polite smile for her.
"Good morning," he said softly.
"Good morning," she replied, though her voice sounded foreign in her own ears.
Noah glanced at her hand and noticed she was flexing her fingers slowly, as if testing them. He leaned forward, careful not to be intrusive. "Feeling any better today?"
"Maybe," she admitted. "It's… hard to say."
"I know." He didn't ask what that meant. Some things, he'd learned, were better left unspoken until she was ready.
The nurse came in shortly after, cheerful and efficient, checking vitals and adjusting equipment. Iris answered as best she could, though her responses were slow, hesitant. Each word felt heavy, as if the accident had taken not only her memories but the speed of thought with them.
After the nurse left, Noah finally spoke, his voice quieter now, almost reluctant.
"I brought something."
From the thermos, he poured a small cup of tea and handed it to her. "Chamomile. Not bitter."
Iris took it, surprised by the simplicity of the gesture. "Thank you," she said, and for a brief moment, she almost smiled. She wanted to remember the warmth of his hands, the careful way he poured the tea. But her mind refused.
"Do you want to talk about yesterday?" he asked carefully.
She shook her head. "Not yet."
Noah didn't press. Instead, he sat in silence, the kind of silence that didn't demand attention but offered comfort anyway. She noticed little things about him now the way his shoulders slumped slightly when he was worried, the way he avoided looking directly at her forehead scar, the tiny tremor in his hands when he thought no one was watching.
After a long pause, she spoke. "Tell me… about small things. Things I might have forgotten."
He blinked, then nodded. "Okay."
"You remember the little coffee shop by Pine Street? The one with the green door?" she asked, unsure why it came to her.
"Of course," he said. "You always ordered the caramel latte, two sugars, never milk. And you'd frown if it was too bitter."
Her lips twitched, almost a smile. "I don't remember that."
"No, you wouldn't," he said gently. "But you liked it."
She sipped the tea he brought, letting the warmth settle in her chest. Somehow, it was easier to believe the past existed when someone else told her about it.
"You've been… always like this," she said after a moment. "Always caring for me, even when I can't see it."
He shrugged, though the tension in his jaw betrayed him. "You matter," he said simply. "It's hard not to."
Iris didn't know what to say. She wanted to ask why, wanted to demand that he stop carrying the weight alone, but the words didn't come. Instead, she just nodded and let the silence stretch between them.
Later, when her parents arrived, she noticed how natural it was for Noah to greet them, the way they included him in conversation without question. It struck her, strange and unsettling, how familiar he seemed to everyone but her.
Her mother fussed over her, asking if she'd eaten, if she was comfortable. Her father offered quiet reassurances, always calm, always measured. Noah stood to the side, attentive, ready to step in if needed, but careful not to overshadow them.
After they left, the room fell quiet again, except for the faint hum of machines and the occasional distant footsteps down the corridor. Iris stared at Noah, her thoughts tangled.
"I'm scared," she admitted finally, her voice barely above a whisper.
"For what?" he asked.
"That I'll never feel what I'm supposed to feel. That I won't remember… us."
He moved closer, sitting at the edge of her bed this time. "You're already feeling it," he said softly. "Even if your mind doesn't recognize it yet."
She looked at him, trying to understand what he meant. His gaze held a weight, a history she couldn't access, but it was enough to make her chest tighten.
"Do you ever think about what would happen if I never remembered?" she asked.
"All the time," he admitted. "But I stay anyway. Because you're worth it. Even if you can't see it."
Tears pricked her eyes not from pain, but from the strange ache of realizing that someone could love you more than you loved yourself, even when you didn't remember them.
Iris leaned back against the pillows, sipping her tea slowly, letting the quiet fill the room. Noah didn't speak, didn't need to. Being there was enough.
For the first time since waking, she allowed herself to feel the faint stirrings of something she couldn't name. Comfort? Connection? Hope? Maybe all of it.
And outside, the clouds were breaking. Light spilled in across the floor, catching the steam from her cup and the damp edges of Noah's jacket. The day felt like a promise.
A quiet, fragile promise that maybe, just maybe, some things could be rebuilt, even when the memory of them had been lost.