Page 36 of One of Those Amnesia Stories

I shook my head, a laugh bubbling up. “So you do have a personality. I’ve been lying here wondering why I married a plank of wood. A piece of blank paper. Don’t get me wrong, there’s nothing wrong with being plain. But having absolutely no personality? That’s not my type.” I grinned up at him. “It’s good to see there’s actually something there. It’s not a good something, but at least it’s not nothing.”

He stepped closer, his expression turning serious again. “Alessia, I know you’re angry. I know you’re trying to punish me, and I know I deserve it. But you don’t have to keep doing this.” His voice softened as his eyes searched mine. “I made a mistake. I’m sorry—”

“You really messed up, huh?” My brows shot up, curiosity overtaking the little satisfaction I’d felt a second ago. “What did you do? Have an affair or something?”

A flash of offense crossed his face, his voice turning firm. “I would never do that. How could you even think that?” He paused, the hurt in his expression impossible to miss. “You know me.”

I met his pleading gaze with a flat, unimpressed look. “That’s the thing, bro. I don’t know you.”

He visibly flinched. “Don’t call me ‘bro,’” he muttered, his voice roughening. “I’m your husband.”

“Yes, you’ve mentioned that.” I gave him a sympathetic look. “Sorry to burst your little husband bubble, but the memories are gone. Completely wiped. Vanished into the great unknown.”

I offered him my sweetest smile.

“Tragic, I know.”

Uncertainty flickered across his face before his features hardened again, every trace of hesitation disappearing beneath stubborn refusal.

“No.” A short, incredulous laugh left him. “I don’t buy it. It’s too convenient.” He took a step away, dragging a hand through his hair before turning back toward me. “You’re telling me you remember everything else, but somehow our entire marriage has vanished from your memory?”

He shook his head firmly. “No. I’m sorry, but that doesn’t make sense.”

I took a bite of mango, then placed the bowl on the bedside table and adjusted my pillow until I was comfortably settled against it.

“Okay,” I murmured, settling in. “This feels like a personal meltdown, and I’m sleepy. Would you be a doll and switch off the lights on your way out? Thanks.”

His head snapped toward me. “You want to sleep? Then sleep. Why would I leave?”

“Because, bro…” I lowered my voice, leaning closer to make sure the point sank in. “I’m not sleeping in a room with a freaking stranger.”

“I am not a stranger, I am your husband,” he ground out. “And for the last time, stop calling me ‘bro’.”

I pushed myself up onto my elbows, ignoring the protest from my sore body as I held his gaze. “Listen to me. Actually listen this time.” My voice came out sharper than I intended, frustration burning through every word. “I went to a party with my best friend. I laughed, I drank, I got into a car to go home, and then I woke up here and—” I swallowed, my throat tightening as I tried to make sense of the absurdity myself. “Two years and nine months of my life are gone, and there’s a random man standing in my room telling me he’s my husband.”

A humorless laugh escaped me, thin and bitter, before I shook my head. “And that random man is more concerned with proving I’m faking this than with the fact that I just lost almost three years of my life.” I stared at him, my chest tightening as the words kept spilling out. “Do you have any idea how fucking terrifying this is? How frustrating? How fucking hard it is to wake up and realize everything around you has changed, and you don’t even know where you fit into any of it?”

He straightened abruptly, his expression changing under the weight of my words. The stubborn certainty he’d clung to moments ago vanished, replaced by a rush of guilt that left his features stricken.

“I…” His voice caught, the rest of the sentence refusing to come. He looked away, swallowing hard before dragging a hand over the back of his neck. “You’re right.” His voice came out subdued. “I’ll be outside.”

He crossed the room without another word. At the door, he paused for a second, glanced back at me, then reached for the switch and dimmed the lights before stepping into the hallway.

For the first time since waking up, I was alone.

I let my head sink into the pillow and closed my eyes, exhaustion pulling at every part of me.

I hope I don’t wake up and find out another three years are gone and I have a kid now.

Naija stood by the window with her tablet balanced in one hand while I fastened my watch, finally preparing to leave the room that had become my entire universe for the past two weeks. The discharge papers were signed, my bag was packed, and the promise of getting back to my agency had me practically vibrating with impatience.

“We’ve landed another high-profile client,” Naija said, scrolling through the tablet. “Mr. Montgomery. Tech sector. He’s a perfectionist, so expect him to reject the first two concepts purely on principle.”

A smile tugged at my mouth. “Sounds charming.”

Two weeks trapped in a hospital room had left me craving everything I’d once complained about—the deadlines, client calls, campaigns, and endless PR crises.

“What about Mrs. Garcia?” I asked, sliding my laptop into my bag. “How’s Garcia’s Hearth?”