Dr. Lee’s expression softens, a hint of empathy in his gaze. “We’ll help you find an alternative, Ms. Foster. There are facilities equipped to handle cases like his, places where he can receive the care he needs.”
I close my eyes briefly, guilt gnawing at me, the weight of that possibility almost too much to bear. The thought of leaving Keane—of letting someone else take on the responsibility that was once mine—feels like tearing away a part of myself. But the reality of what this would mean . . . how much it would change everything . . .
Keane’s hand twitches on the bed, drawing my gaze. His fingers flex slightly, as if he’s reaching for something—maybe me, maybe his own sense of control. The vulnerability in his eyes cuts deep, his confusion and helplessness like an open wound. And in that moment, I realize just how much he’s depending on me, even if he can’t say it out loud.
I take a shaky breath, fighting back the tears threatening to spill over. This isn’t the reunion I’d dreamed of. This isn’t the life we imagined. It’s something else entirely, something I don’tyet know how to face. But as I look at him, I know one thing for certain—walking away isn’t an option. Not now. Not ever.
Chapter Eighteen
Keane
Every time the door opens,my chest tightens, bracing for whoever might come through. A nurse with another needle or some kind of test. A doctor ready to throw more questions at me, expecting answers I can’t give. It’s exhausting, never knowing what’s coming next, never knowing if they’re here to prod me, to analyze me, or to tell me something I’m not sure I want to hear.
The anticipation gnaws at me, leaving me on edge, helpless to control anything about my own life.
But this time, it’s not a doctor. It’s not a nurse. It’s a woman—a stranger, yet . . . not quite. She steps in slowly, her movements hesitant, like she’s preparing herself for something she isn’t ready to face. She stops just inside the doorway, one hand still gripping the handle as she stares at me, her gaze heavy, unreadable.
I squint, trying to place her. She looks familiar, but it’s like staring through fog. Her face, framed by long dark hair pulled back in a loose braid, feels like it should mean something. Like she belongs in some part of my life I can’t quite reach. Maybe this is her, those eyes are so familiar. She’s the one I’ve been waiting for.
I want to ask where the fuck she’s been and to tell me . . . well, why the fuck am I here? But not before she explains to me who she is though. I dig into the empty spaces of my memory, desperate to pull out something—anything—that explains why this woman, with her haunted expression and cautious steps, feels important.
She doesn’t move closer, just watches me, and I see something flicker in her eyes—a mix of sorrow, regret, maybe even fear. It’s as if she’s carrying something I should understand, something I should remember. But my mind refuses to cooperate, leaving me with nothing but fragments that don’t fit. I know I should know her, that there’s a reason she looks at me like I’m part of some story we shared . . . but I can’t find it. The harder I try to grasp it, the further it slips away.
Before I can process anything, another figure steps into the room—Dr. Lee, I think his name is. Yes, that sounds right. He’s accompanied by a nurse, and they both move with a calm efficiency that only deepens my frustration. I’m tired of being watched, analyzed, treated like I’m something broken. But I’mtoo tired to fight it, so I just wait, trapped in this body that won’t respond, in this mind that won’t remember.
“I’m Dr. Lee,” he says, nodding toward the woman, though his gaze eventually settles on me. “I’m part of the team overseeing Keane’s care since he regained consciousness.”
The woman nods, swallowing like she’s gathering herself before she speaks. “Ophelia Foster,” she says, her voice soft but clear.
There it is, that name—Ophelia—again. It reverberates in my mind, striking something raw, something buried. It stirs an ache I don’t understand, touching on a memory just out of reach. I know her name. I know her. But I don’t know why.
I stare at her, hoping she’ll give me some kind of hint, something that will untangle these thoughts and feelings. There’s an intensity in her gaze, a history I can’t remember yet feel in my bones. She looks at me like she’s been carrying something for both of us, and I’m powerless to help her bear it.
Dr. Lee’s voice drones on in the background, talking about therapy, recovery plans, things I can barely focus on. My attention stays on Ophelia, on her face, her eyes, the sorrow that seems to be woven into the very air around her. I don’t understand it, but I know it’s important.
She’s important.
Essential, even.
The one constant in this disorienting fog.
I open my mouth, struggling to form the words, to ask her to explain who she is, who we are. But nothing comes out, just the ghost of a thought lost in the empty spaces of my mind. I want to reach out, to bridge whatever distance lies between us, but the words, the memories—they’re all locked away.
Instead, I just watch her, feeling like I’m missing the most crucial part of myself, hoping she’ll say something, anything, to help me find my way back.
I try to say something, try to ask the thousand questions that are brewing inside me, but my throat tightens, the words vanishing before they reach my lips. I’m trapped, unable to bridge this gulf between us, unable to understand why she looks at me with such a mixture of longing and sorrow.
The doctor’s voice fades, leaving the room in a heavy, stifling silence. I watch her, searching her face for some hint, some word or gesture that might unlock this tangled mess of feelings inside me. There’s something there—a connection I feel down to my core, like she’s a part of me I can’t quite reach. But she just stands there, her gaze flickering with something unreadable, something that leaves me feeling even more unmoored. And as frustration coils tighter inside me, it hits me—she’s as lost as I am. Whatever history we share, she’s struggling to hold onto it, too.
“We’ll take him home,” Haydn says, his tone definitive, brooking no argument.
She shakes her head, her voice soft but unwavering. “No. I’ll stay.”
“Pia, you can’t do this on your own,” he insists, and there’s a raw edge to his voice, like he’s seen her carry too much before and won’t let her make the same mistake again.
“Haydn, you have a routine, a schedule,” she says, her words trailing off with the weight of something unsaid. “I can’t just pull you away from that.”
“You won’t have to,” he says, firm. “We’ll make him part of the routine. You can’t do this alone, and I wouldn’t be able to live with myself if you were thousands of miles away, trying to manage all this . . . by yourself.” His gaze flicks briefly in my direction, his jaw tightening. “What if he never . . . What if he can’t fully recover?”
