The hospital room felt smaller today, though the sun had broken through the clouds and painted warm streaks across the floor. Iris woke slowly, the light pressing softly against her eyelids. She stretched, testing her limbs, and realized just how much of her body remembered pain even before her mind did.
Noah was already in the chair beside her bed. He hadn't moved yet, still watching her, quiet, as if the act of simply being there could help anchor her fractured thoughts.
"Morning," she said softly.
"Morning," he replied, offering that faint, familiar smile. "How'd you sleep?"
"Not well," she admitted. "Dreams. Fragments. Rain."
He nodded. "I'm not surprised. It's going to take time." His voice was steady, patient the kind that reminded her that some people carried the weight of others not because they had to, but because they cared.
A soft knock at the door pulled her attention. Lena stepped in, her umbrella dripping lightly on the floor, carrying a small tray of breakfast. "Morning. Thought I'd bring something you might actually enjoy."
Iris managed a small smile. "Thanks."
They ate quietly, listening to the soft hum of machines and the faint patter of rain that had returned. Small talk came easily for Lena, but Iris found herself grasping at the words, like they were lifelines. She wanted to feel normal, but the normal she remembered was slipping further from her grasp with each day.
After breakfast, Noah spoke softly, breaking the silence that had grown thick.
"Do you ever think about what it was like before?" he asked carefully.
Iris looked down at her hands, turning the cup in her fingers. "I… sometimes I feel like I should. Like there's something I'm missing. But I can't reach it."
He leaned forward slightly. "That's okay. You don't need to remember everything to move forward. We'll create new moments, together."
"I don't know if I can," she said, almost whispering. "I don't know if I'll ever feel what I'm supposed to feel for you… for us."
He studied her for a long moment, his gaze steady. "Feeling doesn't always follow memory. Sometimes it comes first, and memory catches up later."
It was an odd thought, and yet comforting. Somehow, the idea that she didn't need to remember to feel was like a small light piercing through the fog.
Later, her parents arrived, quiet and careful as always. They brought gentle conversation, soft questions, and words meant to reassure. Noah remained present but unobtrusive, his calmness serving as an anchor for both Iris and her family.
After visiting hours, Iris leaned against the window, watching the rain streak down the glass. Each drop seemed like a small fragment of a life she might never fully reclaim. But she realized, looking at Noah standing quietly in the room, that not all pieces of the past mattered. Some things some people were impossible to forget.
"You're still here," she said softly, almost as if confirming it.
"I'll always be," he replied, his voice steady and certain.
For the first time, Iris allowed herself to believe it. Not in memory, not in certainty, but in presence. In the quiet act of someone staying, even when it's hard.
The rain outside continued to fall, but inside, a fragile warmth had begun to settle. And for the first time since the accident, Iris didn't feel entirely alone.
She let the quiet fill her, knowing that even without remembering everything, some moments were already enough.