Page 5 of One of Those Amnesia Stories

Ugh. I’d forgotten how exhausting these things could be. Hours of standing, pretending to care about people whose names I’d probably forget by morning, keeping my expression pleasant while every part of me begged for somewhere to sit down.

Usually, I’d have disappeared hours ago.

Tonight, I stayed because Cassian needed this.

He’d never said so. Cassian would sooner swallow broken glass than admit he needed help, let alone ask for it. But the signs had been there for months, scattered through the little things he probably thought I didn’t notice.

The tension that stayed knotted in his shoulders long after his suit jacket came off. Meals left untouched beside his laptop until the food went cold. Nights when I’d find him asleep at his desk, cheek pressed against his forearm, only for him to jerk awake and reach for the keyboard before his eyes had fully opened.

He kept insisting he was fine.

I knew what Cassian looked like when he was fine. This wasn’t it.

A few months ago they had lost the Bali project, the landmark resort his company had chased for years, the biggest bid they had ever submitted. It had left the entire company in a kind of silence no one knew how to break. That loss began everything. After it, the setbacks seemed to multiply, the Milan property ran into delay after delay, its completion date drifting first to autumn, then to spring, then further. Then, another project was pushed back. Rumours started making rounds about investors getting nervous.

Each setback left him more exhausted, but instead of slowing down, Cassian pushed himself harder.

Late nights became routine before either of us seemed to notice. I’d be half-asleep when the front door finally opened, followed by the muted thud of his shoes and the rustle of his jacket being dropped over a chair. Sometimes he’d make it to his study. Other nights, exhaustion caught him before he got there.

I’d wake to find him folded into the corner of the sofa, his laptop balanced across his thighs, his head tipped against the cushion while the cold light from the screen flickered across his face.

I’d stand there in the dark, wondering how someone could look so tired and still wake up the next morning determined to do it all over again.

Somewhere along the way, our marriage had started shrinking around his schedule.

Dinner used to be the part of the day I looked forward to most. We’d sit across from each other and let the evening stretch without checking the time, talking about everything and absolutely nothing. A stupid thing I’d seen that afternoon could turn into a twenty-minute conversation. One of his stories would remind me of something else, which would lead to another story, and suddenly the food between us had gone cold because neither of us had noticed.

Now dinner was whatever we could steal between his meetings and emails.

I’d start telling him about my day, sometimes saving a story all morning because I knew he’d want to hear it over dinner. I’d wait for the right moment, fork suspended above my plate, already smiling as I began.

Then his phone would light up beside his glass.

His eyes would flick toward the screen.

“Give me a second,” he’d murmur, already reaching for it.

I’d nod and take another bite.

My food would cool in front of me while his attention stayed fixed on whatever had appeared on that screen. I’d take a sip of water, move something around on my plate, pretend to be interested in the television playing across the room. Every few moments, my eyes would drift back to him, searching his face for some indication that he was nearly finished.

Sometimes I’d wait so long that I’d forget where I’d been in my own story.

When he finally looked up, I’d still be sitting there with my fork in my hand, the words I’d been trying to tell him stranded somewhere between my thoughts and my mouth.

“Sorry. What were you saying?”

I’d open my mouth, ready to pick up where I’d left off.

It had been something about my day. Something that had made me laugh, irritated me, or reminded me of him. I’d carried it around all day, saving it for this exact moment, already knowing the little smile I expected to see when I told him.

I’d try to find it again.

But his eyes looked tired. His phone was still lying beside his plate, close enough for him to reach without thinking. His attention had already started drifting toward it.

The excitement I’d carried into the conversation was gone.

I’d lower my fork.