Noa POV
Memory doesn't come back gently.
It doesn't knock or warn you or wait until you're ready. It crashes in like a body through glass, sharp and loud and unforgiving.
I'm brushing my teeth when it happens.
Mint foam on my tongue. Bathroom light too bright. Elias's shirt folded neatly on the counter like proof that this is my life now.
The mirror blinks.
Not literally. That's just the only way I can describe it.
One second, my reflection is me — pale, composed, careful.
The next, it's someone else.
Someone furious.
The image snaps so hard I drop the toothbrush. It clatters into the sink, mint splattering the porcelain like blood.
I grip the counter, breath coming too fast.
Stairs.
The memory is sudden and violent.
Not falling.
Being pushed.
Hands on my back. A voice behind me — low, controlled, almost calm.
"You said you wanted this to stop."
My knees buckle.
I slide down the cabinet, pressing my fist into my mouth to keep from screaming.
It wasn't an accident.
It was never an accident.
Elias did it.
The realization settles heavy in my chest, rearranging everything. All the apologies. All the concern. All the nights he held me while I shook and told me my mind was broken.
He didn't save me.
He rewrote me.
The bathroom door opens.
"Noa?" Elias's voice is sharp now. Alert. "You okay?"
I don't answer fast enough.
He's kneeling in front of me in seconds, hands gripping my shoulders. His eyes scan my face like he's looking for cracks.
"What did you remember?" he asks.
Not are you okay.
Not what happened.
What did you remember.
My heart slams.
"I—" I force a breath, let my eyes glaze slightly. Confusion. "Nothing. Just dizzy."
He doesn't buy it.
His jaw tightens. His fingers dig in just enough to hurt.
"Look at me."
I do.
Something shifts in his expression.
Fear.
Real fear.
"You're lying," he says quietly.
I tilt my head. Play dumb. "Why would I lie?"
His grip loosens. He exhales slowly, like he's steadying himself.
"Because you always lie right before you remember," he says.
Always.
The word lands like a punch.
"How many times?" I whisper before I can stop myself.
Elias freezes.
The silence stretches too long.
Then he stands abruptly, turning away. "You need rest. We'll skip today's plans."
"No," I say, sharper than I intend. "Tell me how many times."
He turns back.
And this time, the mask slips.
"You don't want to know," he says.
"I already do."
He stares at me like he's deciding something. Like a man weighing risk versus control.
"Three," he says finally. "This is the third reset."
My vision swims.
Three lives.
Three versions of me that figured it out and had to disappear.
I laugh — a broken, ugly sound. "So what? You push me down the stairs every time I get inconvenient?"
His face hardens. "I saved you."
"No," I snap. "You erased me."
"You were self-destructive," he says, voice rising. "You were going to ruin everything. Yourself. Me. Us."
"Us?" I stand, hands shaking. "There is no us. There never was."
Something ugly flashes in his eyes.
"You loved me," he says. "Every time."
The words make my skin crawl.
"And every time," he continues softly, "you begged me to help you forget."
I shake my head. "You're lying."
He steps closer.
"I'm not," he says. "You wrote it down yourself."
The notebook.
My chest tightens.
He sees the realization and smiles — small, relieved.
"There it is," he murmurs. "That doubt. That hesitation."
He reaches for me.
I slap his hand away.
The sound echoes in the bathroom like a gunshot.
Elias stares at his hand.
Then at me.
Slowly, he smiles.
Not the gentle one.
The real one.
"Careful," he says. "That's new."
I back away. "You can't do this again."
"I can," he says calmly. "And I will, if I have to."
My pulse roars in my ears.
"No," I whisper. "You won't."
He tilts his head. "And why is that?"
"Because this time," I say, voice steady despite the terror ripping through me, "I didn't figure it out alone."
His smile fades.
"What do you mean?"
I don't answer.
I turn and walk out of the bathroom, heart pounding but head clear.
Behind me, I hear it.
The sound of something cracking.
Elias doesn't follow right away.
And for the first time since I woke up in this life—
I know I've won something.
Not freedom.
Not safety.
But time.
And time is enough.