The hospital room smelled like disinfectant and something faintly metallic. Iris noticed it the moment she woke again really woke this time, not drifting in and out the way she had before. The ceiling tiles were uneven, one slightly cracked at the corner. She focused on that crack, tracing its shape with her eyes, because it was easier than focusing on the heaviness in her head.
There was a quiet beeping somewhere to her left. A machine, she guessed. Her body felt sore, like she had slept wrong for several nights in a row. When she tried to lift her hand, a dull pain flared and she hissed softly.
"You're awake."
The voice startled her.
She turned her head. The same man from before was there, sitting now, elbows resting on his knees as if he'd been afraid to lean back. He looked like he hadn't slept. His eyes were rimmed red, his jaw tight, like he was holding himself together with effort.
Noah.
She remembered his name. At least that.
"How long have I been here?" she asked.
"A few hours," he said. "You went back to sleep after the doctors checked you."
She nodded slowly. Talking felt strange, like her mouth was slightly out of sync with her thoughts. "They said I was in an accident."
"Yes."
"Was it bad?"
He hesitated. Not long just enough for her to notice. "It could've been worse."
That answer didn't satisfy her, but she didn't push. She looked around the room again, noticing the small things: a chair pulled too close to the bed, a jacket draped over it, damp at the edges. His jacket.
"You were with me," she said.
He blinked. "Yes."
"In the accident."
"Yes."
Something twisted in her chest. Not fear. Not pain. More like frustration. "I don't remember it."
"That's okay," he said quickly. Too quickly. "The doctors said"
"They always say things like that," she interrupted. "I want to know what *you* think."
Noah leaned back slightly, as if giving himself space to answer honestly. "I think… your mind is protecting you."
"From what?"
He didn't answer right away.
Iris studied his face while she waited. He had a familiar kind of face not striking in a way that demanded attention, but steady. The kind of face you might trust without knowing why. That realization unsettled her.
"From something that hurt," he finally said.
She swallowed. "Did someone else get hurt?"
His eyes dropped to the floor. "You did."
"And you?"
"I'm fine."
She didn't believe him. There was a stiffness in the way he moved, a carefulness, like every motion had been rehearsed to avoid pain. Still, she let it go.
A nurse came in shortly after, cheerful in a practiced way, checking her vitals, asking her to squeeze fingers, to follow light with her eyes. Iris answered when she could, nodded when she couldn't find words.
"Any dizziness?" the nurse asked.
"A little."
"Memory issues?"
Iris hesitated. Then, "I don't remember him."
She gestured slightly toward Noah.
The nurse nodded, not surprised. "Selective memory loss isn't uncommon after trauma."
Noah's jaw tightened.
"Do I know him?" Iris asked.
The nurse glanced between them, careful. "He's been here since you arrived."
That wasn't an answer.
After the nurse left, silence settled again.
Iris shifted, uncomfortable. "You don't have to stay," she said.
"I want to."
"Why?"
The question slipped out before she could soften it.
Noah looked at her for a long moment. The air between them felt fragile, like one wrong word could shatter it.
"Because you matter to me," he said.
The honesty in his voice made her chest ache again. She pressed a hand lightly against it, frowning.
"I'm sorry," she said. "I don't mean to be rude. It's just… I don't feel what I think I'm supposed to feel."
"That's okay."
"No, it's not," she said quietly. "You look at me like I'm something you almost lost."
He flinched.
"That's not fair to you," she continued. "If I mattered to you before, and now I don't remember… that's not your fault. But it's not something I can pretend away either."
Noah nodded slowly. "I'm not asking you to."
"Good," she said. "Because I don't want lies. Even kind ones."
He exhaled, like he'd been holding his breath. "I won't lie to you."
"Then tell me," she said, meeting his eyes. "What were we?"
The word *were* echoed in the room.
Noah's hands curled into fists, then relaxed again. "We were… close."
"How close?"
"Enough that forgetting me hurts more than remembering."
Her throat tightened. She hadn't expected that.
"I'm sorry," she whispered.
"I know," he said. And somehow, that hurt more than anger would have.
Later, after visiting hours ended, her parents came. Her mother cried when she saw her, holding her too tightly, asking the same questions over and over as if repetition might make everything stable again. Her father stood back, eyes tired but warm, squeezing Iris' hand with quiet relief.
They thanked Noah. Over and over.
Iris noticed how he stepped aside when they did, like he was used to being overlooked.
When it was time for him to leave, he stood awkwardly near the door.
"I'll come back tomorrow," he said.
"You don't have to," Iris replied.
"I know."
He paused. "Would you like me to?"
She considered the question carefully. Her head still hurt. Her thoughts felt fragile. But something about the idea of him not coming back made that strange pressure return.
"Yes," she said finally. "I think I would."
His smile this time was small, careful, like he didn't trust happiness anymore.
"Okay," he said.
After he left, the room felt emptier than it should have.
Iris lay awake long after the lights dimmed, listening to the rain tapping against the window. She closed her eyes and tried to remember anything. A voice. A laugh. A moment.
Nothing came.
But her heart wouldn't stop reacting to someone her mind didn't recognize.
And that scared her more than forgetting ever could.