Page 145 of One of Those Amnesia Stories

She snapped the tablet’s cover shut.

“Like I said. I deserve to relax.”

I didn’t press further.

Then another thought surfaced.

“Why are you talking to me nicely?”

She glanced at me, her expression unreadable for a moment. Then she shrugged, a single, elegant lift of her shoulder.

“You’re not my boss’s stupid husband anymore.”

She turned and walked away, falling into step beside Alessia without a backward glance.

Ouch.

The title—or lack of it—hit like a sucker punch. Not her husband anymore. That reminder was a special kind of hell.

I stayed within arm’s reach the entire day, a silent shadow hovering at the periphery of her work. Alessia shot me a couple of questioning looks, but never told me to leave.

I took it as a win.

There was no sign of the sickness. Not yet. But there never was. That was the terrifying, predictable part of it. One moment she’d be laughing, and the next, the color would drain from her face as if someone had pulled a plug, leaving her limbs heavy and useless.

So even though it might not have been today, my attention never wavered. Before she left with Naija, I pulled Naija aside, my voice low.

“If anything seems off tomorrow—anything. Even a cough. Let me know.”

Hours later, I was in my kitchen, rolling a cold water bottle against the back of my neck, when my phone buzzed on the counter.

Naija: She just took tomorrow off.

I dropped the bottle onto the counter, turned, and heard it thud to the floor behind me. I didn’t look back.

I went straight to our room, grabbed the go-bag I’d kept packed and ready by the door all week, then remembered.

I pivoted and sprinted back to the kitchen.

My eyes scanned past the water bottle now lying on the floor. I pulled the fridge open and reached straight for the second shelf, where the tall glass bottle I’d brewed fresh every morning that week was waiting.

Boiled water, steeped herbs, strained, cooled. Just in case.

Every unused batch was poured out at night. Every morning, a new one was made.

I screwed the cap on tight, wrapped it in a towel, and nestled it into my bag. My movements were automatic, efficient, driven by a deep, practiced urgency.

I grabbed my keys and was out the door.

I didn’t slow down, didn’t think, didn’t breathe properly until my car was idling outside her building and I was finally, finally looking at her front door.

Chapter 24

The door opened after what felt like an eternity of ringing the bell.

She was leaning against the doorframe, one shoulder pressed hard into the wood, her knees barely keeping her upright. Just hours ago, she had moved through the apartment with relentless purpose, commanding every room she entered. Now she looked utterly spent. Her arms hung loosely at her sides, her posture folded in on itself, all that force stripped away.

I studied her, unease spreading through me. Her body sagged against the frame, her face pale and drawn. Her eyes were glazed, struggling to focus on me.