Page 131 of One of Those Amnesia Stories

It irked me in a way I couldn’t shake. It sat in my gut, heavy and sour, long after the memory faded.

I always did that. My brain didn’t just prefer to focus on one critical thing at a time. It demanded it. If one task was deemed critical, it received 100% of my resources.

One task at a time. Full focus. Complete immersion. I couldn’t listen to music while studying. I couldn’t hold a conversation while reading a report. I couldn’t eat in a high-stakes meeting.

Everything else was paused. Food could wait. Rest could wait.

Alessia could wait.

My company was in crisis. It was the “critical thing.” So I gave it everything. My time, my energy, my presence. I’d mentally filed my marriage under “later.” I thought I was being responsible. I thought, She’ll understand. She’ll be there when this is over.

But relationships don’t work that way.

You can’t put a person on pause. You can’t put a heart on hold. A relationship doesn’t survive on the promise of future attention. It withers in the present neglect.

The chill spread from my chest to my fingers.

I didn’t just need to be better. I needed to unlearn the very way I saw the world.

I needed to learn how to hold more than one critical thing in my heart and mind at the same time. Even if it felt messy. Especially if it felt messy.

Which was why, when Liam poked his head into my office today—as he had every day since I’d laid my soul bare to him—and asked, “Lunch?”

I didn’t say no.

Even though the work on my screen was crucial. Even though it was a strategic pivot that brought me tangibly closer to my goal. The old Cassian would have waved him off, eyes already sliding back to the data.

“Yeah,” I said, my voice sounding strange to my own ears. “Give me a second.”

Liam’s eyes widened a fraction, the only betrayal of his shock. He quickly smoothed his expression into careful neutrality. “Sure. No rush.”

I saved the file, closed the laptop, stood up, and shrugged into my jacket. We walked out of the building, into the midday light.

And nothing happened.

No alarms sounded. No emails of immediate doom flooded my phone. The work was just… there. Waiting. And the world continued to turn.

The familiar unease still whispered at the back of my mind—you left in the middle, you walked away, it’s not finished.

I ignored it. Instead, my thumb found the familiar, cool band of platinum on my left pinky—her wedding ring, my permanent reminder. I circled it, feeling the smooth metal, the endless loop. This is why. This is the priority. People are not tasks.

With each rotation, the nagging lost a little of its edge. I was here, walking to lunch with my friend. The work would be there when I got back.

Everything was fine.

There was something else new about my mornings. After the memory, before the day could truly begin, I stood in silence before the picture of Alessia on my dresser. It was from our honeymoon, caught mid-laugh, her head thrown back, one hand pushing her hair from her face. She looked free. Happy.

My task was simple: say the words.

When I first started, it felt impossible. The silence in the bedroom would thicken, pressing in on me until my chest ached. There were mornings I ended up on my knees, forehead pressed against the cool wood of the dresser, fists clenched, cursing myself in a ragged whisper. Three words. Just three fucking words. Why can’t you say them?

Other times, I just stood there, locked in a staring contest with her frozen joy, my jaw working soundlessly, until the timer on my phone chimed.

After weeks, I had managed two whole words. They came out cracked and airy, but they were there, hanging in the silent room between me and her photograph.

One word remained. The core of it. The heaviest one.

Love.