The dry wind swept through the open windows, the curtains dancing lightly in its embrace. The warm sunlight slipped through, touching my face as I lay on the hospital bed. Two weeks had passed, yet the fog over my memory refused to lift. Every thought felt fragmented, every moment distant.
The nurses came and went, their care mechanical but consistent, bringing my hourly medication. Across the room, another patient occupied the second bed, their presence a faint echo of companionship in an otherwise lonely silence.
At 7 PM, the monotony broke. A soft voice reached me, pulling my attention.
“Abel… Abel!”
My heartbeat quickened. My name—so simple, yet so grounding. Though I couldn’t remember who I was or why I was here, my name clung to the fragments of my identity like a lifeline. I turned toward the voice and saw her.
She was about my age, sitting up in the other bed. Her eyes sparkled with a curiosity that was impossible to ignore. Freckles dotted her face like constellations, and her warm smile made the room feel brighter. My pulse raced, my thoughts stumbling over themselves. Why was I so nervous?
When I finally spoke, my words came out clumsy. “Hey! Who told you my name?”
Her smile didn’t waver. If anything, it grew wider, her laugh soft and melodic. It filled the room, chasing away the sterile chill. She stood up, walking toward my bed as if determined to bridge the distance between us.
She approached slowly, her steps light, like she didn’t want to disturb the air around us. When she reached my bedside, she tilted her head and said, “You talk in your sleep, Abel. That’s how I know your name.”
Embarrassment flushed my cheeks, but her tone carried no mockery. Her curiosity seemed genuine. I cleared my throat, trying to compose myself. “I… I do?”
She nodded, her smile unwavering. “Don’t worry, it wasn’t anything embarrassing. Just your name, over and over. It’s like you were clinging to it.”
Her words struck a chord. She was right—I was clinging to it. My name was the only thing I had left, the only certainty in a sea of confusion.
“What’s your name?” I asked, trying to shift the attention off me.
Her eyes sparkled as she replied, “Maya.”
“Maya,” I repeated, the name rolling off my tongue. It felt comforting, like the first piece of clarity in this foggy existence.
She pulled a chair close to my bed and sat down, crossing her legs casually. “So, do you remember anything else, Abel? How you got here, where you’re from?”
I shook my head. “No… nothing. Just flashes, maybe. A field, the smell of rain, and…” I trailed off, struggling to grasp the fragments of memory slipping through my fingers.
“And?” she prompted gently.
“And a voice,” I said finally. “A voice calling my name. It’s… familiar, but I can’t place it.”
She rested her chin on her hand, her expression thoughtful. “Maybe it’s someone important to you. A family member? A friend?”
“Maybe,” I muttered. “Or maybe it’s just my mind playing tricks on me.”
For a moment, we sat in silence. The sound of the wind filled the room, mingling with the faint beeping of the heart monitor. Maya broke the silence with a chuckle.
“Well, you’re not alone in the memory department,” she said, leaning back in the chair. “I’ve been here for a week now, and I don’t remember much either. Just that I fell and hit my head during a storm. The rest is… fuzzy.”
“Do you think we’ll remember?” I asked, my voice softer than I intended.
She shrugged, her smile tinged with sadness. “Maybe. Maybe not. But does it really matter?”
I blinked, caught off guard. “How can it not matter?”
“Because,” she said, leaning forward, “we’re here now, Abel. Right now. We don’t need to remember everything to live in this moment.”
Her words hung in the air, filling the room with an unexpected warmth. She was right. I didn’t know who I was, where I came from, or how I ended up here. But in this moment, none of that mattered. What mattered was the girl sitting in front of me, her laughter like music, her presence like sunlight piercing through the clouds.
As the days passed, Maya and I grew closer. She told me about the books she loved, the stories she’d imagined, and the dreams she still held onto despite her missing memories. In turn, I shared the few fragments I could recall, weaving them into conversations like scattered pieces of a puzzle.
One afternoon, as the golden light of the setting sun poured into the room, Maya turned to me with a mischievous grin.
“Do you want to make a pact?” she asked.
“A pact?” I repeated, intrigued.
She nodded. “Let’s promise each other something. No matter what happens, no matter what we remember or don’t remember, we’ll live. Really live. Deal?”
Her hand extended toward me, her pinky finger outstretched. I stared at her for a moment, then smiled. “Deal.”
Our pinkies intertwined, sealing the promise. In that moment, I realized something: maybe it didn’t matter how I got here or who I used to be. Maybe all that mattered was the now, the promise, and the hope of tomorrow.
And with Maya by my side, the fog in my mind didn’t seem so overwhelming anymore.
Image sources from Canva AI
Abel and Maya made me feel like I understand what love at first sight actually is without necessarily experiencing it. The poetic description of the environment, moments, and scenarios kept me totally locked in. I mean, who cares about the past when the future seems even better?
Nice one✨