The hospital room smelled faintly of antiseptic, but today the scent felt less oppressive, almost familiar. Iris sat up in bed, the sunlight streaming through the blinds casting warm lines across her sheets. It was the first morning since the accident that she didn't feel entirely like a stranger in her own life.
Her hands flexed restlessly in her lap, trying to remember the shapes of the world she had lost. The accident had taken more than memory it had taken certainty. Small things, like the way the light fell on the coffee table in her apartment or the sound of Noah's laugh, felt like fragments she could almost grasp but not hold.
A soft knock at the door startled her.
"Morning," Lena said, stepping inside with her usual brisk energy, though her eyes softened when they met Iris'. "I brought breakfast. Figured you might want something real instead of hospital food."
Iris smiled faintly. "Thanks." She noticed Lena's gaze flicker toward the empty chair at the side of the bed. "Noah hasn't come yet."
Lena shrugged. "He said he'd be here. Don't worry, he'll show up. You know him."
Iris frowned slightly, but didn't argue. Lena had a way of speaking as if she knew things she couldn't explain.
Breakfast arrived, and they ate together quietly. There was comfort in routine, even if the routines themselves were strange. Lena asked questions about Iris' sleep, her pain, and gently prodded her about the memories she was starting to regain.
"Do you remember anything yet?" Lena asked, carefully watching for reactions.
Iris shook her head. "Bits. Faces mostly. Sounds. A laugh. But nothing that feels… mine."
"That's okay," Lena said. "Memory is tricky. Sometimes it comes back when you're not expecting it."
Their conversation was interrupted by the soft creak of the door. Noah stepped inside, holding a small bag of things books, a cup of coffee he had brewed himself, and a pair of reading glasses he apparently didn't wear often.
"Good morning," he said softly.
"Morning," Iris replied. Her voice sounded steadier today, but there was still that subtle hesitation, the sense of reaching for something she couldn't quite grasp.
He set the coffee on the side table and sat in the chair beside her bed. "I thought you might want a story," he said, lifting one of the books. "Nothing complicated. Something that doesn't require remembering the past."
Iris tilted her head. "You think I can read?"
"No," he said with a faint grin, "but you might enjoy it."
For a while, they read in companionable silence. Noah occasionally glanced up at her, noting her reactions, the way her eyebrows furrowed, the slight curl of her lips. Small details, trivial things to anyone else, but for him, they were pieces of yesterday she hadn't lost entirely.
After the reading, Iris spoke, almost as if testing the words before letting them leave her lips. "Do you ever feel… like you're holding onto someone else's past?"
Noah considered the question. "Every day. But maybe that's not the worst thing. Sometimes, it's all we have until the memory catches up."
She nodded slowly. "I'm afraid I won't catch up."
"You will," he said firmly. "It just takes time."
Time. It was a word that felt both distant and urgent. She wanted it to fix everything, but she knew even as she hoped, some things might never be the same.
Later that day, Iris' parents visited again. They were quieter than yesterday, more careful with their words. Her mother fussed with her blanket, her father offered soft reassurances, and both of them seemed to notice the subtle changes in her expressions, the tentative way she interacted with Noah.
When they left, Iris finally allowed herself to speak the question that had been simmering all morning.
"Why do you stay?"
Noah hesitated, his gaze dropping to his hands. "Because you matter," he said simply. "Not because you remember me. Not because it's easy. Because it's you."
Iris felt a weight settle in her chest. It wasn't relief, exactly it was heavier, more complicated. Guilt mingled with gratitude, confusion tangled with a faint warmth she couldn't name.
"I don't know if I can ever feel the same," she admitted, her voice breaking slightly.
"You don't have to," he said softly. "Not yet. Not until you're ready."
And in that quiet, ordinary moment, Iris realized that memory wasn't the only thing that mattered. Presence mattered too. The act of staying mattered.
She closed her eyes for a moment, listening to the faint hum of the machines and the subtle sounds of the hospital beyond the door. Noah remained by her side, patient, unwavering, giving her time to piece together fragments of a life that felt just out of reach.
For the first time since the accident, Iris allowed herself to hope not for memory, not for the past, but for something slower, gentler. Something real.
Because maybe, she thought, real wasn't about remembering everything. It was about noticing the pieces that hadn't been lost.
And right now, Noah was one of those pieces.