Chapter Text
Tyler’s POV
The door closes behind me, and the sound hits harder than it should. It feels final. It feels like the end of something I didn’t know could end this way.
I keep walking, not sure where I’m going. The hallway stretches on forever. It’s too white, too clean. My chest feels tight, like I left the air in that room with her.
She looked at me like a stranger. Not angry. Not afraid. Just… indifferent.
That’s the part that keeps replaying. The blankness in her eyes, the way she spoke to me like I was just another hospital visitor passing through. No recognition, no flicker of the person who once called me infuriating and meant it as affection.
I stop halfway down the corridor and press my back to the wall. The linoleum is cold through my shirt, grounding in a way that hurts. My hands are shaking.
Footsteps echo toward me. When I look up, Dr Andrews is there, still holding the same clipboard that seems glued to his hand. His expression is patient, the kind you learn after years of giving bad news. “Tyler,” he says quietly. “I was coming to find you.”
I nod because words feel dangerous right now.
“I know this is hard,” he continues. “She’s awake. That’s a good sign. Her vitals are strong, and the scans look better than we expected.”
“Except she doesn’t remember me,” I manage. My voice sounds wrong. It sounds hoarse, smaller than it should be.
The doctor exhales through his nose, glancing toward the closed door behind me. “Memory loss after trauma isn’t unusual, especially with head injuries. It can range from hours to months, sometimes longer. Right now, her mind is protecting itself. That’s all we know.”
“So it could come back?” I ask.
“It might,” he says carefully. “But there’s no guarantee. Sometimes memories return in fragments, sometimes not at all. The important thing is that she’s alive and healing.”
Alive. The word should help, but it doesn’t. It feels like a consolation prize for the wrong competition.
I sink onto the nearest bench, elbows on my knees. “She didn’t even look at me twice,” I whisper. “Like I was nobody.”
“She’s disoriented,” Dr Andrews says. “Give her time. Familiar voices, places, and things. They can trigger recognition. But you can’t force it. You have to let her remember on her own.”
I nod, though none of it feels possible.
The doctor’s pager buzzes, and he excuses himself with a quiet “I’ll check on her soon.” Then he’s gone, and the hallway swallows me again.
For a long time I just sit there, staring at the floor tiles until they blur. My reflection in the polished surface looks like someone else entirely. I look tired, cracked, and unrecognisable. Maybe we both lost our memories tonight.
I drag a hand through my hair and press my palms over my eyes, trying to breathe past the ache in my chest. “She doesn’t remember me,” I say out loud, just to hear it, to make it real.
The words echo back, small and hollow. For the first time since the crash, I let the weight of it break through. My shoulders shake, quiet and ugly, until there’s nothing left but the sound of the machines in the room down the hall. It’s steady, distant, alive. It’s her heartbeat, not mine.
…
I don’t remember deciding to stay. I just never leave. The nurses stop asking after the first few hours. I think they’ve realised that I’ve turned the hallway outside her room into my own personal purgatory. The chair beside the door creaks every time I shift, but I’ve gotten used to the sound. It fills the gaps between the heart monitor’s steady beeps from inside.
I can’t make myself go in. Not yet.
Every time I close my eyes, I see the look she gave me. The way her gaze slid right past me like I wasn’t even there. It wasn’t cruel. It was worse than that. It was empty.
I rest my elbows on my knees, staring at the linoleum floor until the pattern starts to dissolve. The vending machine hums faintly down the hall, and the smell of overbrewed coffee drifts from the nurses’ station. Time moves strangely in hospitals. It’s like it’s afraid to make a sound.
My phone buzzes in my pocket, but I ignore it. Eventually, I give in and pull it out anyway. The screen lights up, cracked from the crash. No new messages.
I scroll through my contacts until I stop at one name I know I can’t avoid. It’s Enid. I stare at it for a long time before pressing call. It rings three times before she picks up.
“Tyler?” Her voice is cautious, hopeful and wary all at once. “Please tell me you’re calling with good news.”
For a second, I can’t answer. My throat closes around the words. “She’s awake,” I manage.
There’s a beat of silence on the line. Then, “Oh my god…really? That’s amazing! Is she okay? Can I…”
“She doesn’t remember me.”
The line goes quiet again. I hear her inhale sharply. “What?”
“She woke up, and she looked right at me,” I say, each word careful, like I’m trying not to break them. “And there was nothing. No recognition, no… anything. It’s like everything we had never happened.”
Enid’s voice softens. “Tyler…”
“The doctor said it’s the head trauma. That it could come back. Or it might not.”
There’s a rustle on the other end. I hear her pacing; I can tell. “Do they know how bad it is? What she remembers?”
“I don’t think she remembers much of anything,” I say. “Just her name, Nevermore, basic things. Everything else is just… gone.”
Enid doesn’t speak for a long moment. When she does, her voice sounds smaller. “She’s going to hate that. Losing control like that.”
“Yeah.” I press the heel of my hand to my eyes. “I keep thinking if I’d reacted faster, if I’d seen that truck a second sooner…”
“Stop.” Her voice sharpens. “Don’t do that to yourself. This isn’t your fault.”
Maybe it isn’t. But the guilt still sits heavy in my chest. “I just want her back,” I say quietly. “Even if she hates me again. I just want her back.”
Enid exhales, and I can hear the emotion she’s trying to hide. “She will be. You know her… She’s too stubborn to stay lost for long.”
I almost smile. “Yeah. That’s what I’m counting on.”
“Keep me updated, okay? I’ll come as soon as they let visitors in.”
“I will.”
When the call ends, the silence rushes back in. I stare through the small glass window in the door, just enough to see her profile against the white pillow. She looks peaceful, which, for Wednesday Addams, feels like a contradiction in itself.
I don’t know how to talk to someone who’s forgotten you. I don’t even know if you’re supposed to try. But I know one thing. I’m not leaving until she remembers or until I find a way to make her want to.
…
Wednesday’s POV
Sleep comes and goes. Every time I close my eyes, the same nothingness greets me. There are no dreams, no images, just silence and the occasional whisper of movement around me.
The day crawls forward, all fluorescent lights and hushed voices. Doctors murmur, machines hum, and every so often a nurse appears to check my vitals, as if staring long enough will stop my brain from rebelling.
I must drift again, because when I next open my eyes, the light has shifted. A nurse is adjusting the IV line beside my bed. Her nametag reads Sarah. She smiles when she sees me awake. It’s one of those well-meaning expressions designed to be comforting and therefore irritating.
“Good afternoon, sweetheart,” she says gently. “How are you feeling?”
“Conscious,” I reply flatly. “Regrettably.”
She laughs softly. “That’s a start. You’ve been through quite a lot. It’s good to see you awake.”
I study her for a moment. “Are you under the impression that I’m in a position to appreciate that?”
Her smile doesn’t falter. “You’ve got spirit. That’ll help you heal faster.”
“Doubtful. Optimism has never accelerated recovery. It only prolongs denial.”
She shakes her head in mild amusement and jots something down on her clipboard. Then, almost casually, she says, “You’re lucky, you know. Most people don’t have someone waiting day and night for them. That boy of yours hasn’t left once.”
I blink. “Boy of mine?”
She nods toward the door. “Your boyfriend. He’s been here every day since they brought you in. Sweet thing. I hope my husband would do half as much.”
Something inside me goes rigid. It’s not fear, but indignation. “I think you’re mistaken,” I say, my tone slicing cleanly through the air. “That boy is definitely not my type.”
The nurse pauses, startled by the precision of my reply. “Oh, I just assumed…”
“Never assume. It’s the first step toward disappointment.”
And that’s when I hear it – the soft creak of the doorway. I turn my head, slowly, and there he is. The boy. The stranger. Wearing the name Tyler.
He stands just inside the threshold, as if he’s unsure whether he’s allowed to be there. His hair is messy, his eyes are rimmed red, and his expression. It’s the look of someone who’s just had their pulse stopped mid-beat.
For a moment, no one speaks. The air between us feels heavy, like the seconds themselves are embarrassed to move.
The nurse clears her throat softly. “I’ll, uh… give you two a moment,” she murmurs, slipping out quickly.
I don’t look away from him. “Eavesdropping is a rather inelegant habit,” I say.
He swallows hard, his voice rough. “Didn’t mean to.”
“I doubt that,” I reply. “But if it comforts you, I’m not offended. I simply prefer honesty over sentimentality.”
He looks at me for a long time like he’s searching for something behind my eyes. Whatever he’s hoping to find, it clearly isn’t there. His voice is soft when he finally speaks. “You really don’t remember anything, do you?”
“No,” I say simply. “And judging by the emotional debris you seem to be dragging behind you, I’m beginning to think that might be for the best.”
He flinches. He nods once, like he’s accepting a punishment he expected. “I’m glad you’re okay,” he says quietly. Then he turns and leaves before I can formulate a reply.
The door closes behind him with a soft click. For a long time, I stare at the empty space where he stood.
…
I make it as far as the end of the hall before I stop. My chest feels tight, like there isn’t enough air in this building.
“She doesn’t even know who I am.” The words spin on repeat, whispering under my breath like a curse I can’t unsay.
I lean against the wall, pressing my palms into the cool plaster. I thought I was ready for this. For the shock, the confusion, the blank stare. I wasn’t. Nothing prepares you for someone looking at you like a stranger when you’ve memorised every detail of their face.
I drag a hand through my hair and take a shaky breath. The fluorescent lights hum overhead; someone’s cart squeaks down the hallway. Life keeps happening, but I feel stuck inside a single frozen second.
Her voice, that calm, biting tone, is still in my head. That boy is definitely not my type.
I can’t blame her. She’s right, in a way. The version of me she knew probably wasn’t her type either. But hearing it… it’s like losing her all over again.
A nurse passes, gives me a sympathetic smile, and disappears around the corner. I force myself to move, pacing the hallway because sitting still makes me feel like I’ll break apart.
That’s when I hear the elevator doors slide open. Two figures step out, unmistakable even from a distance: black silhouettes cutting through the sterile white like ink spilt across paper. Morticia and Gomez Addams.
They move together in perfect, eerie grace. Her hand resting lightly on his arm, his smile small and soft in her direction. For a moment I forget to breathe. It’s strange seeing them here, in this too-bright place that doesn’t deserve their presence.
Morticia’s gaze finds me first. Sharp, observant, impossible to hide from. “Mr. Galpin,” she says, her voice smooth as silk and twice as dangerous. “I was told you’ve been here since the accident.”
“Yes, ma’am.” My voice comes out quieter than intended. “She woke up this morning.”
Gomez brightens immediately. “¡Eso es maravilloso! Our little raven lives to terrorise another day!”
Morticia’s smile is small but real. “How is she?”
I hesitate, and that’s all it takes. Morticia’s expression changes. It’s subtle, but the concern beneath it is unmistakable. She steps closer, her eyes narrowing just slightly. “Something’s wrong.”
I look down, suddenly fascinated by the floor tiles. “She’s… awake,” I say carefully. “Physically, she’s okay. But…”
Gomez tilts his head. “But?”
I swallow. “She doesn’t remember me.”
The silence that follows feels like a physical thing. Morticia’s painted lips part just slightly, and for the first time, I see genuine surprise flicker in her eyes. “She didn’t recognise you at all?” she asks softly.
I shake my head. “No. It’s like everything, everything we had, is gone. She looked right at me and didn’t even blink.”
Morticia’s gaze lingers on me for a long moment, studying every line of my face, every word I can’t quite say. There’s something deeply knowing in her eyes. The kind of understanding that comes from having lost and loved in equal measure.
She finally speaks, voice calm but threaded with empathy. “Wednesday has always guarded her heart like a fortress. If she cannot remember you, it is not out of cruelty. It is because even her mind refuses to show weakness.”
Gomez rests a hand on my shoulder. It’s light, reassuring. “Do not despair, amigo. My daughter is stubborn. If she once cared for you, she will again. Probably against her better judgement.”
Despite everything, a quiet laugh escapes me. It sounds rough and short, but real.
“I’ll stay,” I say, the words coming out steadier than I feel. “Even if she never remembers. I’ll still stay.”
Morticia nods once, approval hidden behind that serene mask. “Then perhaps you are exactly the kind of boy my daughter would deny loving.” There’s a small curve to her lips, half amusement, half melancholy.
The doctor appears at the end of the hallway, calling the Addamses toward Wednesday’s room. Morticia squeezes my arm as she passes. “Rest, Tyler Galpin. You cannot haunt her back to herself if you destroy yourself in the process.”
I watch them walk away. They look graceful and composed, a pair of shadows cutting through the light.
When the door closes behind them, I sink back into the chair outside the room, the same one I’ve occupied since this all began. I wait. Because it’s all I can do.
…
Wednesday’s POV
The door opens without ceremony, which means it’s either a nurse or someone who doesn’t fear me. When I see black silk sweep across the threshold, I know which.
“Mother,” I say, voice low and even. “You’ve come to witness the miracle of modern medicine.”
Morticia glides into the room like a wraith made of grace and perfume, her hand resting lightly on Father’s arm. Gomez follows, eyes alight with that unsettling mix of joy and terror he always reserves for moments involving me. “My little death’s-head,” he exclaims, crossing the room with his usual flourish. “To see you awake is to feel life itself tremble!”
“Life trembles for many reasons, Father,” I reply. “Most of them unpleasant.”
Morticia leans down to brush a cool kiss across my forehead. The scent of night-blooming flowers and faint incense clings to her like a second skin. “You look pale,” she murmurs.
“I’m in a hospital,” I point out. “It would be suspicious if I looked radiant.”
Her lips curve. It’s that elegant, secret smile that says she approves of the remark even when she shouldn’t. She takes a seat beside me, while Father hovers near the foot of the bed, wringing his hands like a man awaiting a verdict. “How are you feeling?” she asks.
I consider the question. “Like someone removed part of my brain and replaced it with fog.”
“That’s fairly accurate,” she says with unnerving calm.
“Then the doctors are competent. How disappointing.”
Father laughs, though the sound wavers. “That’s my girl! Sharp as ever.”
“I’m told sharpness is all that remains,” I reply. “Apparently, the rest of me has suffered a minor… deletion.”
Morticia’s eyes narrow slightly. “You remember nothing?”
“Names. Places. Basic context.” I glance toward the door. “There was a boy. They say he’s been here since I woke. He seems rather distressed about something. The nurse suggested he’s my… boyfriend.”
Gomez’s grin softens. “Ah, young love! How tragic, how divine…”
“Incorrect,” I interrupt. “I’ve been assured that I’m not the romantic type. And after meeting him, I’m certain of it.”
Mother’s expression doesn’t change, but something flickers in her eyes. It’s faint, knowing. She studies me for a moment longer than necessary. “He must have meant something to you,” she says. “The kind of devotion he’s shown doesn’t come from nothing.”
“I don’t doubt he believes that,” I answer. “But belief is an unreliable witness.”
Morticia’s fingers brush my wrist lightly, her touch cool and deliberate. “Memory is fickle, cara mia. But the heart often remembers what the mind forgets.”
I tilt my head, unimpressed. “That sounds like a line from a particularly dreadful romance novel.”
Father laughs again, but quieter this time. “Ah, still my little sceptic.”
Morticia’s smile is faint. “Be kind to him, Wednesday. Even if you don’t remember, grief is a familiar ghost to the living.”
“I don’t intend to be unkind,” I say honestly. “I simply have no use for misplaced sentiment.”
The room falls into a soft silence after that. The rain outside has started again. It’s light this time, polite. Mother and Father sit with me for a while longer, speaking of trivial things: Enid’s frantic phone calls, Thing’s attempts to sneak into the hospital, and Uncle Fester’s insistence that he could “jumpstart” my memory with electricity.
It’s almost comforting in the way that funerals are comforting when you already know the ending.
When they finally rise to leave, Morticia pauses at the door. She turns back once, her expression unreadable. “Do not rush what’s meant to return to you, my darling. The mind heals in shadows.”
“Then it will feel right at home,” I reply.
She smiles. It’s proud, sad, and something else I can’t quite name. “Yes,” she says softly. “It will.”
The door closes, and I’m alone again. I stare at the ceiling for a long time, listening to the rain and the machines. Somewhere deep inside, there’s a faint ache. It’s not pain exactly, but the echo of something missing. I ignore it. Emotions are unreliable.
…
Tyler’s POV
I watch them leave her room. Morticia and Gomez, two shadows in perfect sync. Even the way they walk together makes ordinary people look like static. They move like they know something the rest of us forgot.
When the door closes behind them, the hallway feels heavier again. I press my palms together, grounding myself before I ask, “How is she?”
Morticia turns toward me. Her face is calm, but her eyes…they see too much. “She’s… herself,” she says finally. “Sharper, perhaps, for the pieces that are missing.”
That sounds exactly like Wednesday.
Gomez smiles faintly. “She looks well, my boy. Which is to say, pale and ominous as ever.”
I manage a weak laugh. “That sounds about right.”
Morticia studies me for another long moment. Then she says softly, “She does not remember you.”
It’s not a question, but I nod anyway. “No. Not even a flicker.”
She sighs. It’s slow, almost musical. “Grief and memory are sisters, Mr Galpin. When one wanders off, the other often follows. But they do have a way of finding their way home.”
“I hope you’re right,” I say, though I don’t know if I believe it.
She touches my arm lightly. “You care for her. That will matter, even if she does not yet know why.”
And with that, they leave. Leaving a swirl of black silk and calm inevitability. When they’re gone, I stand there for a while, unsure what to do next. The rational part of me knows I should rest, eat something, and go home. But the rest of me. The parts that still feel like they belong to her refuse.
I end up back in the same chair outside her room, my second home now. The nurses pass by, nodding at me like I’m part of the furniture. I pull my jacket tighter and stare at the small square window in her door.
She’s awake, sitting up slightly, her expression unreadable. She doesn’t look weak; she looks… untouchable. Like the accident didn’t take anything except me.
I catch myself remembering our first conversation. Her walking into the Weathervane like she was there to deliver my sentencing, the way she dissected me with every glance, the faint twitch at the corner of her mouth when she realised I was enjoying it. Now she doesn’t even know my name. The thought makes my chest ache in a way that no injury ever has.
I don’t know how long I sit there before I finally whisper to the empty hallway, “Okay. If you don’t remember me… Then I’ll just have to make you fall for me again.”
It sounds ridiculous when I say it out loud, too dramatic even for Jericho. But something about it feels right. Because if there’s one thing I learnt about Wednesday Addams, it’s that she doesn’t respond to pity. She responds to persistence.
So that’s the plan. I’ll stay. I’ll wait. I’ll remind her, one moment at a time, of everything she forgot. Not with memories, but with proof.
If she fell for me once, maybe, just maybe, she can do it again. And if she doesn’t… then at least she’ll know I tried.
…
I don’t sleep much that night. Hospitals aren’t built for it. The lights never really go out, and the walls hum with machines that sound like anxious hearts. Every time I close my eyes, I see her face. That blank, calm stare that used to feel like home.
By morning, I’ve made up my mind. If she doesn’t remember me, I’ll start from the beginning. Even if she never knows what came before, I’ll make sure she has reasons to trust me again. Maybe even like me again, though I won’t say that part out loud.
The nurse at the desk gives me a knowing look when I ask if I can visit. “She’s allowed short company,” she says, sliding a clipboard across for me to sign. “Try not to overwhelm her.”
I almost laugh. “Trust me, she’s not the type who gets overwhelmed.”
When I step into the room, the first thing that hits me is how awake she looks. Propped against the pillow, eyes clear, expression unreadable. She’s dressed in a hospital gown that somehow still looks like a uniform of defiance.
Her gaze flicks toward me immediately. Cold, sharp, assessing. “Oh. The boy.”
“Tyler,” I remind her. My voice sounds steadier than I feel.
“Yes. You mentioned that yesterday.” She looks unimpressed. “I suppose you’ve come to hover again?”
I try to smile. “I just wanted to see how you’re doing.”
“I’m conscious,” she says. “Apparently that’s impressive around here.”
“Guess it depends on the company,” I reply, before I can stop myself.
Her eyebrow lifts a fraction. It’s the Addams equivalent of surprise. “You’re attempting humour. Bold of you, given the circumstances.”
I shrug. “Someone’s got to keep the conversation from flatlining.”
She studies me for a long moment. I can almost see the wheels turning behind her eyes, the way she dissects people like a puzzle she’s not sure is worth solving. Finally, she says, “The doctor tells me I’ve forgotten some things.”
“Yeah,” I say softly. “He did.”
“I assume you’re one of them.”
“That’s… accurate.”
Something flickers across her face. It’s not guilt, not sympathy, just curiosity. “And you’re planning to do what, exactly? Reintroduce yourself? Deliver a PowerPoint presentation on our alleged history?”
“I hadn’t thought that far ahead,” I admit. “But I figured I could start by sitting here. You know, if that’s okay.”
She tilts her head. “You intend to loiter?”
“I prefer ‘stay close.’”
Her mouth twitches. It’s not quite a smile, but something close. “Fine. But if you start reciting poetry or offering emotional support, I’ll request sedation.”
“Noted.”
For a moment, neither of us says anything. The silence isn’t comfortable, but it’s not unbearable either. She reaches for a cup of water on the tray beside her, hands steady, movements deliberate.
When she catches me watching, she says, “You’re staring.”
“Just… trying to remember what this feels like,” I say before I can stop myself.
Her gaze sharpens. “I told you, I don’t…”
“I know,” I interrupt gently. “You don’t remember me. I’m not asking you to.”
That seems to throw her off balance for a split second. Which is a rarity, I imagine. “Then what are you asking?”
“Nothing.” I lean back in the chair. “I just wanted to see you awake.”
She stares at me for a moment longer, then looks away. She looks out the window at the grey sky beyond. “People waste so much energy on sentiment,” she murmurs. “It never leads anywhere useful.”
“Maybe not,” I say quietly, “but sometimes it leads back.”
She doesn’t reply. But I notice the faintest shift in her posture, like she’s thinking about it, and for now, that’s enough.
I sit there until the nurse returns to check her vitals, then stand to leave. Before I reach the door, her voice stops me.
“Tyler.”
I turn.
She doesn’t meet my eyes when she says it, but her tone is barely softer. “You can… loiter again tomorrow.”
A real smile breaks through before I can help it. “Yeah,” I say. “I will.”
When I step into the hallway, I let out a breath I didn’t realise I was holding. It’s not a victory. But it’s a start.
…
Wednesday’s POV
Hospitals are prisons disguised as sanctuaries. The walls are white instead of grey, and the guards wear scrubs, but the effect is the same. You are monitored, medicated, and politely discouraged from dying.
I spend the next day observing my captors and the machines that seem convinced my pulse requires supervision. I feel fine aside from the gaping hole in my memory, which everyone insists on calling “temporary”. 'Temporary' is a fragile word. It promises everything and delivers nothing.
He visits again. The boy. Tyler. He arrives with the hesitance of someone entering sacred ground or a lion’s cage. I haven’t decided which I am yet.
He doesn’t bring flowers, which earns him one point in his favour. Instead, he stands by the chair, awkward and quiet, until I tell him to sit down. “You’re back,” I say.
“You said I could loiter,” he replies, as if that’s a perfectly valid invitation.
“I see you take orders well.”
“Only yours,” he says before thinking about it.
I raise an eyebrow. “That sounds suspiciously like devotion.”
He shrugs, staring at his hands. “Habit, maybe.”
He doesn’t look at me when he talks, and I find that preferable. I dislike being observed like a specimen. Still, there’s something unsettling about his silence. It isn’t empty. It’s full of things he isn’t saying. The nurse comes in, fusses with the IV, and leaves again. The quiet settles back between us like a heavy curtain.
After a while, I ask, “What was I like? Before.”
He blinks, surprised. “Before?”
“Yes. When my brain apparently contained things like context and memories.”
A small, sad smile appears on his face. “You were… you.”
“Unhelpfully vague,” I say. “Try again.”
He takes a breath. “You were smart. Intense. You said what you thought, even when it scared people. You didn’t care what anyone expected from you.”
“That sounds consistent,” I admit.
He hesitates. “You laughed sometimes.”
“I find that unlikely.”
“I’m serious,” he says quietly. “Not often. But when you did, it was…” He stops himself, shakes his head. “Doesn’t matter.”
I study him carefully. He’s nervous, but not pitiful. Tired, but not broken. There’s something resolute in the way he keeps showing up. A persistence I can’t decide is admirable or pathetic.
“You could leave,” I tell him. “Go live your life. I clearly wasn’t memorable enough to stay in mine.”
He looks up at me then, eyes sharp and sad all at once. “You were unforgettable, Wednesday. That’s the problem.”
The words hang in the air, quiet and dangerous. I don’t know what to do with them. So I do what I always do when faced with sentiment. I ignore it.
“I think it’s time for my walk,” I announce, reaching for the call button. The nurse arrives with a wheelchair, and Tyler stands instinctively, as if he intends to help. I glare at him until he steps back.
“I’m not an invalid,” I say.
“I know,” he replies softly. “Just making sure you don’t fall.”
I don’t answer. But as the nurse wheels me toward the hallway, I catch my reflection in the window. I look pale, composed, almost calm, and realise I’m watching the boy’s reflection, too. He’s still standing in the doorway, watching me leave. I tell myself it doesn’t matter. That I don’t care. But the truth settles quietly beneath my ribs: I hate that he looks at me like I’m already gone.
…
'Recovery' is an overused word. People like to apply it to things that are never truly restored. Like paintings after fires, cities after wars, and people after loss. They speak of healing as if it’s a return, but it isn’t. It’s reconstruction. And nothing rebuilt is ever quite the same.
I’ve been “recovering” for six days. The nurses whisper about progress; the doctors smile like I’m their prize exhibit. Apparently, consciousness equals triumph. Personally, I find the entire process insulting.
Tyler still visits. Every day. Without fail. He sits in the same chair by my bed, as if by staying there long enough, he can reassemble the past through sheer persistence. He brings me things: coffee, books, and sometimes silence. He doesn’t look at his phone, doesn’t pace, and doesn’t fidget. He just sits there. Watching me.
At first, I tolerated it out of curiosity. Now, I’m beginning to suspect it’s pity disguised as loyalty.
He tells me stories about things I supposedly liked. About fencing tournaments, cello recitals, and a night where I allegedly made him watch Sleepy Hollow on repeat until dawn.
I listen, but the words mean nothing. They’re like someone else’s memories dropped into the wrong skull. Still, he keeps coming back.
…
Today, it’s raining again. The sound against the window reminds me of something I can’t quite place. Tyler arrives at his usual hour, carrying two cups of coffee. The smell reaches me before he does.
“I figured you might need this,” he says, holding one out to me.
I take it, mostly to shut him up. “You appear to be under the impression that caffeine repairs neurological damage.”
He smiles faintly. “If it did, I’d be a genius by now.”
“Doubtful.”
The exchange feels easy, automatic. It’s the kind of rhythm that must have once meant something between us. But now it’s only noise. Like hearing an old song without remembering why you ever liked it.
He stays longer than usual. Talks about the weather, the doctors, and Enid’s texts. I respond in short answers, my patience thinning with each word. The more he talks, the more I feel something inside me twist. It’s not anger exactly, just… pressure.
He watches me with that look again. That soft, relentless look that I can’t stand.
“Why do you keep doing that?” I ask finally, my tone sharper than intended.
He blinks. “Doing what?”
“Staring. Like I’m a broken toy you’re hoping to fix. It’s unnerving.”
He looks away, guilt flickering across his face. “Sorry. I just… I’m trying to help.”
“Help?” 'I echo', letting the word roll off my tongue like poison. “By haunting me every day? By sitting there like some lovesick ghoul waiting for me to turn into a person I don’t remember being?”
His brow furrows. “That’s not fair, Wednesday. I just…”
“Don’t call me that.” The words cut out of me before I can stop them. “Not like that. You say it like it’s supposed to mean something, and it doesn’t. Not to me.”
He flinches, as though I’ve struck him. “I didn’t mean…”
“I don’t care what you meant.” I set the coffee down, the sound sharp against the tray. “I don’t want you here.”
He goes very still. The silence between us stretches, thick enough to choke on. “You don’t mean that,” he says quietly.
“I do,” I reply, cold and certain. “Every time you walk in here, you look at me like I’m your tragedy. I’m not. Whatever you think I was, whoever you think we were…it’s gone. I am not that girl. I don’t remember her, and I have no interest in pretending to be her for your sake.”
His breath catches. “You think this is easy for me?”
“I think it’s unnecessary,” I snap. “I don’t need you hovering like some ghost of emotional obligation. Go… haunt someone else.”
“Wednesday…”
“GO!” The word tears through the air, sharper than I meant, louder than I intended. It echoes off the sterile walls and seems to hang there between us, final and cruel.
He doesn’t argue. He doesn’t plead. He just stands there, eyes wet and wide. Not with tears, but with disbelief. Then he nods once, a small, broken gesture that looks more like surrender than agreement. “Okay,” he says softly. “I’ll go.”
When he turns, I tell myself not to care. I tell myself this is what I wanted. The door clicks shut behind him, quiet but absolute.
Suddenly, the room feels twice as empty. I stare at the window until the rain blurs into streaks of silver. The coffee cools beside me, untouched. I should feel victorious. I don’t.
All I feel is the echo of the word I shouted: Go. It lingers in the air long after he’s gone, heavy and irreversible. For the first time since waking, I start to wonder whether memory loss might be the kinder fate.
…
Tyler’s POV
When the door closes behind me, the sound feels wrong. It’s too small for something that final.
For a second, I just stand there, staring at the white paint, the faint reflection of fluorescent light on the handle. My chest feels hollow. My heartbeat stumbles in my ears.
She told me to go. Not softly, not with hesitation. No, she meant it. Like I was something she needed to cut out before she could breathe again.
I start walking, but my legs feel uncoordinated, like they’ve forgotten how to hold me up. The hallway stretches endlessly, one long, sterile tunnel that smells like antiseptic and endings.
People pass: nurses, orderlies, and a doctor with a clipboard, but none of them see me. Not really. To them, I’m just another visitor who stayed too long, another story with a sad expression.
Halfway down the hall, I stop. My vision blurs. I can’t breathe right. The sound of my pulse is too loud, my throat too tight. I press my palm against the wall for balance, but the strength drains out of me faster than I can hold it together.
I slide down. My back hits the cold plaster, my knees fold, and I end up sitting on the floor folded in on myself, gasping, shaking.
I don’t remember the last time I cried. Maybe when I was a kid. Maybe the night my mom died.
But this. This isn’t like that. This is quieter. Uglier. It’s not just sadness; it’s everything. The guilt, the exhaustion, the stupid, desperate hope that kept me here every day – all of it breaking loose at once.
I press the heels of my hands into my eyes, like I can stop it, but I can’t. The tears come anyway. They burn, hot and humiliating, spilling out faster than I can swallow them back. “She doesn’t want me,” I whisper into the empty hallway. My voice cracks on the last word. “She really doesn’t want me.”
It hurts to say it out loud. It’s like pulling out a knife that’s already done its job. I stay there for what feels like forever. Minutes. Hours. I don’t know. Time stopped mattering the moment she told me to go.
The floor under me is cold, the wall hard against my back. I keep my head down, breathing through the pain, trying not to imagine her on the other side of that door. Calm, composed, already forgetting I exist.
Footsteps echo down the corridor. They’re quick, light, and familiar. At first, I don’t look up. I don’t have the energy. Then a voice follows. It’s hesitant, soft, unmistakable Enid.
“Tyler?”
I lift my head just enough to see her. I see her blonde hair and bright eyes dimmed with worry.
She stops when she sees me, her hand flying to her mouth. “Oh my god…’’
She’s running toward me. I turn away, swiping at my face, but it’s too late. The damage is already visible. Every tear, every broken sound.
Enid drops to her knees beside me, reaching out like she’s not sure if touching me will make it worse. “What happened? What did she…”
I can’t even get the words out. My voice dies in my throat.
Her eyes widen, filling with something that looks too much like pity. And that’s the moment everything hits me. The weight, the loss, the finality.
I bury my face in my hands, shaking, the sound torn from somewhere deep and raw.
For the first time since the crash, I stop trying to hold myself together. The hallway goes quiet again. There’s just the sound of rain against the window and Enid’s voice whispering my name.
She puts a hand on my shoulder, firm but trembling. “Tyler”, she whispers, “what did she do?”
I can’t answer. Because saying it out loud would make it real.