The next time she opened her eyes, the world was clearer. The fog had thinned, though her skull still ached with every beat of her heart. The steady beep of the monitor matched her pulse, a strange duet that reassured her she was still tethered here, still alive.
The room looked different now — less like a blur of shapes and more like a sterile cube: pale walls, a window curtained with thin blinds, a vase of flowers already wilting on the bedside table. The faint hum of the air conditioner vibrated in her ears.
And there he was.
Miles sat in the same chair, shoulders tense, gaze distant. His phone lay dark in his lap, untouched. He hadn't shaved; the shadow along his jaw was deeper now. His tie was loosened, his shirt wrinkled as if he'd slept in it.
Her chest tightened. He really had stayed. He must have been here the whole time.
She licked her lips, forcing her throat to work. "Hey," she croaked.
His head snapped toward her. For a moment something flickered — relief, maybe surprise — but it vanished as quickly as it came, replaced by that same unreadable composure.
"You're awake," he said, the words almost mechanical.
A tiny smile tugged at her mouth. "Seems so."
He nodded but didn't move closer. Didn't reach for her hand. The ache sharpened in her chest. He looked so guarded, so shut in on himself. She hated seeing him like that.
And then, as if to reclaim some control over the strange silence between them, an idea flickered — a small, mischievous spark. A prank. Harmless. If she pretended she didn't remember him, just for a moment, maybe it would jolt him — scare him enough to break through that armor. Maybe he'd laugh afterward, the tension would dissolve, and they'd find their way back to something human.
Her lips curved faintly. I'll let him off the hook soon enough.
She let her gaze drift, softened her eyes as if still dazed. "I'm… missing bits and pieces," she murmured, voice hoarse. "Before the crash. And the accident itself…"
A small lie with the truth. In her mind, she almost smiled. The only thing I'm missing is how to stop worrying him. I'll tell him I'm joking after I tease him a little.
But his reaction wasn't what she expected.
He froze. Silence pressed between them, heavy and deliberate. The monitor's steady beeping filled the space where his laugh should have been.
Finally, he exhaled slowly, eyes dark with calculation. "Of course," he murmured to himself. "The doctor said this might happen."
Her pulse skipped. "What… do you mean?"
He straightened, every gesture deliberate. "You've been through a lot," he said gently. "I didn't expect you to remember everything right away."
That careful, patient tone — it wasn't his voice. It was the voice he used with strangers.
The door opened behind him. Two figures entered — Christy Cordell and Zane Reyes.
Christy drifted naturally to Miles's side, though the faint widening of her eyes betrayed she hadn't expected to be part of this moment. She hesitated only an instant before recovering and slipping into step beside him. Miles waited until she reached him, then — deliberately, precisely — took her hand. Thumb to thumb. It was nothing. It was everything.
Willow's gaze flicked down to their joined hands, then back up to his face. "Miles?"
He didn't flinch. "We're not together anymore."
The words landed like a drop of ice on bare skin.
Her breath caught. "What?"
"We broke up a few weeks before the accident." His voice was soft, professional, too calm. "I came because… well, we were engaged for a long time. I couldn't just stay away. It wouldn't have been right."
She stared at him, her mind reeling. This was a joke. A silly, harmless prank. But his expression didn't waver. He wasn't joking.
"That can't be true…" The words trembled out before she could stop them. Something in her wanted to blurt the truth — that she remembered everything, that it was all a mistake — but another part froze. This is Miles. He wouldn't say this unless…
He looked at her, measured, composed. "You ended things," he said quietly. "You said it was mutual."
Her lips parted, but no sound came. The doctor entered then, cheerful, clipboard in hand. "Ah, good — you're awake," he said, moving briskly to check her monitors. "How are you feeling?"
Willow barely heard him. She tried to speak, her voice breaking. "He says… we broke up. That's not—"
The doctor smiled kindly. "Don't worry if things feel confusing. Concussion can distort memory — sometimes patients forget, sometimes they invent connections that feel real. It usually improves."
Her stomach twisted. Her own lie had locked her into his.
Miles's expression softened, but it wasn't kindness; it was pity. "It's true," he said. "We ended things. You… wished me well."
Christy looked between them awkwardly, then back at Miles. Her hand was still in his. She didn't pull away.
Willow swallowed hard, her throat thick. "And now?"
He hesitated, and in that pause she saw his choice — not the truth, but the version that served him best.
"I'm with someone else," he said. "Christy."
The name fell like a final blow.
Her vision blurred, tears stinging her eyes. The doctor continued making notes, oblivious.
Miles added quietly, "You congratulated us. You said you wanted us both to be happy. right Zane?" Zane's eyes were unreadable, the very slightest of hesitations and then a slight nod confirmed the lie. "you're with Zane now. He's your boyfriend".
For a moment, everything in the room dimmed — the light, the sound, even the air.
Christy's fingers twitched in his grasp, but she didn't speak. Zane's eyes were unreadable, trained on the floor, arms crossed as though holding something in.
Willow clutched the bedsheet with her uninjured hand. Her voice came out faint, nearly swallowed by the hum of machines. "That can't be true."
But she didn't dare confess the prank. Not now. Not with all of them watching. What if they think I'm unstable? What if he's already decided that I am?
Miles's eyes softened again — that false gentleness that masked calculation. "You need rest," he said.
The doctor nodded in agreement. "Your brain needs time to heal."
Miles released Christy's hand and adjusted his tie — the gesture so familiar it felt cruel now.
She turned her face toward the wall, lips trembling. The sound of their footsteps receded toward the door — Christy's light, uncertain, Zane's slow and heavy.
The prank was over.
The nightmare had begun.