The rain had stopped sometime during the night, but the quiet it left behind felt heavier than the sound ever had.
Iris woke to a dull throb behind her eyes and the unfamiliar weight of stillness. Hospitals were always like this in the early morning too clean, too calm, as if pain had been paused instead of removed. She lay still for a moment, listening to the faint hum of machines down the corridor, trying to gather herself before opening her eyes fully.
When she did, the first thing she noticed was the chair.
It had been pulled closer to her bed than before. A jacket was folded neatly over the back, still damp at the cuffs. Someone had been careful with it, like they didn't want to take up too much space.
Noah.
He wasn't sitting there now. The absence felt strange less like relief, more like the quiet after someone leaves a room and takes the air with them.
She shifted slightly and winced. The ache reminded her of everything she didn't remember. Of the words she'd asked the day before. What were we? The question still echoed uncomfortably in her chest.
A soft knock sounded at the door.
"Come in," she said.
Her mother stepped in first, carrying a small bag and a tired smile. Her eyes searched Iris' face the way parents do after a scare looking not just for signs of life, but signs of the same person still being there.
"How are you feeling this morning?" Margaret asked, setting the bag down.
"Sore," Iris replied. "And… foggy."
"That's expected," her mother said quickly, as if rehearsed. "The doctor said so."
Iris nodded. She had learned already that people clung to doctors' words like anchors.
Her father followed, quieter as always, offering a gentle squeeze of her hand. "Good to see you awake," he said simply.
They talked about small things after that. Food. Work emails. A neighbor who had called to check in. Iris listened, answering when needed, but her attention kept drifting to the door.
"Where's Noah?" she asked before she could stop herself.
Her parents exchanged a look.
"He stepped out earlier," her father said. "To make a call, I think."
"Oh," Iris replied, surprised by the faint disappointment she felt.
Her mother noticed it immediately. She always did.
"You don't remember him at all?" Margaret asked carefully.
Iris shook her head. "Not the way everyone else seems to."
Margaret sat down, smoothing her skirt. "You and Noah have known each other for a long time."
"How long?" Iris pressed.
Her mother hesitated. "Long enough to care."
That answer felt incomplete, but Iris let it go. Pushing too hard made everyone tense, and she was already tired of being the reason for that.
Noah returned not long after, pausing briefly at the doorway as if checking whether it was okay to enter. Iris noticed that, too the way he always seemed to ask permission without words.
"Hey," he said softly.
"Hi."
Her parents greeted him warmly, thanking him again, asking if he'd eaten, if he'd slept. Iris watched the exchange closely. There was familiarity there, easy and unforced. Whatever they'd all shared before the accident hadn't been small.
When her parents eventually stepped out to speak with a doctor, the room fell quiet again.
Noah stood by the window this time, hands in his pockets, staring at the overcast sky like it might give him answers.
"You don't have to hover," Iris said gently.
He smiled faintly. "Sorry. Habit."
"From when?" she asked.
He turned to face her, and for a moment, she thought he wouldn't answer. Then he said, "From when I worried a lot."
"About me?"
"Yes."
The honesty in his voice made her uncomfortable not because it felt wrong, but because it felt undeserved. She hadn't done anything to earn that kind of concern. Not now.
"I don't like feeling like a burden," she admitted quietly.
"You're not."
"I am," she insisted. "You're here because something happened to me. Because I can't remember things I should. That changes how people act around you."
Noah leaned against the wall, arms crossed loosely. "If you think I'm here out of obligation, you're wrong."
"Then why?" she asked, frustration creeping into her voice. "Why does it feel like you're carrying something heavy that I can't see?"
He closed his eyes briefly, then opened them again. "Because I am."
The words hung between them.
Iris swallowed. "You don't have to."
"I know," he said. "But some things aren't about choice."
She looked away, suddenly overwhelmed. The pressure in her chest returned, stronger this time, like her heart was reacting to truths her mind wasn't ready to hold.
Later that afternoon, the doctor returned with test results and calm explanations. No new damage. Healing would take time. Memory might come back in fragments or not at all. There were no promises, only patience.
Afterward, Iris stared at her hands, flexing her fingers slowly.
"What if I never remember you?" she asked quietly, once they were alone again.
Noah didn't answer right away.
"That's okay to ask," he said eventually. "And it's okay if the answer scares you."
"It does," she admitted. "Because I don't want to hurt you without meaning to."
He stepped closer to the bed, stopping just short of touching her. "You won't," he said. "Not by being honest."
She met his eyes. "Then be honest with me too. If staying is too hard, you're allowed to leave."
His jaw tightened. "I don't want to."
"But if you need to"
"I don't," he said firmly, then softened. "Not yet."
That answer felt like a compromise neither of them fully understood.
That evening, after visiting hours ended and the room dimmed again, Iris lay awake listening to distant footsteps and muffled voices down the hall. Noah had gone home this time. He always did when he said he would.
She appreciated that more than she could explain.
As sleep finally crept in, one thought lingered, stubborn and unsettling:
Whatever she had lost in the accident, it wasn't just memory.
It was something living, something shared.
And it was still there waiting for her to catch up.