Page 167 of One of Those Amnesia Stories

But there was another one too, on his pinky.

I didn’t ask about it.

“You can’t say them, can you?” I asked softly. “Those words.”

He’d spoken of them like they were alive. A presence. A stalker that had followed him from childhood, always lurking, always promising pain.

And he couldn’t even take its name.

He gave me a defeated look and lowered his gaze.

I already knew the answer before I asked.

But the confirmation still settled heavily in my chest.

For the little boy who never knew which mother would wake up each morning.

And for the man who had grown up terrified of the very words that were supposed to be everyone else’s salvation.

Three words.

Three simple, powerful words.

And they had been weaponized against him before he was old enough to understand why.

I squeezed his hand once, then let go.

He looked down at his own hand, at the space where mine had been, and rubbed his fingers together as though searching for the warmth that had just left.

Something weary crossed his face, carrying decades of weight.

“It’s not just that I can’t say them. I can’t even write them.”

His voice was quiet, confessional.

“I tried. So many times. But my hands would start shaking, and the words would turn into gibberish. I tried typing, and my fingers just… wouldn’t move.”

He swallowed.

“I can’t do anything when those words are involved.”

He took a breath that seemed to cost him.

“I never told you that part before.”

His voice softened.

“When we were married. I never told you.”

“Why?”

His wounded eyes met mine for a heartbeat before dropping to his lap.

“I was scared you’d look at me like I was broken. Like something was wrong with me.”

My heart tightened, a physical ache right in the center of my chest.

I reached out and took his hand again.