The sky is perfect—blue, wild with clouds—and I'm already laughing by the time he pulls up.
"You said adventure, not a near-death experience," I say, staring up at the looming roller coaster. The scream of the ride above them echoes like a challenge.
Bright just grins, handing me a wristband. "Therapy comes in all forms. Today's version? Fear."
I roll my eyes but follow him anyway.
He grabbed my hand on the way to the ride, fingers lacing through like it's still second nature. I leot him.
The ride jerks forward. Her scream gets swallowed by the wind. His hand never lets go.
Next stop: arcade.
We're back on solid ground—but now it's war.
I'm deadly with the claw machine. He's a pinball king. There's shouting, laughter, fake cheating, and a lot of "You wish you were better than me."
He ends up winning me a tiny plush dinosaur.
I clutch it dramatically. "I'm naming him Bright. Because he looks like a menace."
"Wow. Romantic."
"You like it."
"Yeah," he says quietly. "I really do."
Later—midnight. Long drive.
The windows are down. Wind in my hair. Music low and steady. He glances at me every few seconds like he still can't believe I'm with him again.
My hand's on his thigh. His is on the wheel.
"You know you once asked me what I'd do if we crashed."
"What'd you say?"
"I said I'd shield you. Every time."
I turn my head toward him. "Do you mean it?"
He nods. "Always."
Silence. Tension. Heat between the words.
Then:
"Pull over."
He does.
Backseat. Dark. Heartbeat loud.
Our lips crash like thunder.
Clothes come off in broken pauses—him kissing me like he's making sure it's real, me pulling him closer like I'm trying to remember him with my body.
"You always knew how to touch me," I whisper against his throat.
"You always made me forget how to breathe," he replies, sliding his hands down my thighs.
I gasp, fingers curling in his hair. "Show me again."
And he does—slow at first, then desperate, like the months without her turned into years
I moan his name. He groans mine like it's sacred.
And in the haze of sweat and kisses and whispered
He always kissed my forehead after everything.
He does it now.
And I melt.
The Flashback — Five Years Ago
I slammed the clinic door shut behind me like I was shutting a chapter I never even got to read.
My pulse still raced from the argument—his voice echoing in my head, torn between heartbreak and fury.
"You fell for me twice, Terra. Doesn't that tell you something?"
But all I could think was:
He knew. This whole time. He knew I didn't remember that year. And he let me love him again anyway.
Tears blurred my vision as I approached the receptionist.
"I need to see Dr. Ven, now," she said, voice raw. "It's about my memory."
The office was too quiet.
The doctor skimmed through my old file—labeled in red:
Dissociative Amnesia. Initial event: 6 years ago. Memory gap: approx. 12 months.
"You said this was resolved," I said, folding my arms tight across my chest like armor.
"I said it was stable," he corrected. "Not resolved."
I clenched my jaw. "So why can't I remember him? Why do I feel like there's a whole part of me that's…missing?"
Dr. Ven leaned forward gently.
"Because there is. That missing year—it wasn't just an accident or trauma. It was emotional imprinting. That kind of memory isn't stored just by events. It's stored in how you felt. Who you were. Who you were becoming."
"And?"
"You fell in love during that year, Terra. And sometimes… when trauma erases a memory, it doesn't just delete facts. It deletes feelings."
I stared at the floor. Everything inside me suddenly buzzing.
"Can I get it back?"
"Possibly," he said. "But it won't be instant. Your brain is protecting you for a reason. You'll need guided therapy. Triggers. Emotional recalibration."
I swallowed hard.
"What if I want to remember him?" I whispered. "Even if it hurts."
The doctor smiled, not unkindly.
"Then you've already taken the first step."