Everything is hazy in the dark, the happenings engraved in recent memories blurry like the vague outlines of a fogged forest road at night, with no stars in the sky to illuminate the border between earth and sky. Muffled music plays in the background, but the lyrics are missing, thus making the song nothing short of mere noise to drive out the silence. The scent of mint hangs in the air.

Like the car freshener.

Suddenly two bulbs of light approach at an insane speed, set in their path of destruction and not stopping at anything. An endeavour to swerve out of the way ends in a futile effort, the impact pressing all air out of the lungs and lunging the body forward against the steering wheel, consciousness not lost enough yet once contact is made with the hard leather to not experience a world spinning out of control and the loud clang against metal stopping everything instantly.

Those lights are now coming again, but this time they are anticipated and thus can be met head-on. Once more they enclose at a ravenous speed, but with a jolt to the side, they are avoided.

Or a jolt upright, landing me in a peculiar situation.

The room is tranquilly painted in a shade of heavenly blue, the linoleum floor complimenting the choice of colour by being beige-toned, just a tad darker than the loveseat with its redwood frame, the same material incorporated in the wall behind the bed wherein a very disoriented mind with an equally as confused body rests. Through the windows veiled with see-through white curtains, heavier cream ones hanging beside the frames, tall plastered buildings around a little lush green plaza are visible.

Carefully an attempt at getting up is made, but it is painful and has me wincing all the way through. Nevertheless, it is managed to sit upright and properly take in the environment, neck strangely sore, though that could be due to a wrong sleeping position. Fortunately, it is not broken or otherwise, the cast would have been noticed straight away despite the confusion.

An IV-drip containing some kind of liquid stands beside the bed next to a softly beeping monitor taking note of the heartbeat briefly spiking at the realization the bed belongs to the hospital where, apparently, I am a patient. Eyes wander down, discovering the tube of the bag is connected to the left bandaged hand, the right not in a better condition judging by the tightly wrapped cloth around it. The only thing that seems to have survived whatever happened, is the black nail polish that looks as if it has just been applied. All ten digits are still in place, which is a blessing, especially at the sight of them being movable at will without agonizing restrictions. Underneath the sheets, toes wiggle in unison as well, none missing by the feel of it.

Both arms are bruised, lifting the limbs painted with healing crimson scratches and sickening mustard yellow and plum purple spots to feel the dressing around the head a great deal more painful than the former minor ministrations.

How did I get here? What is going on?

Not even another second of silence is left as the door opens and a nurse comes walking in, busily checking the clipboard onto which a few papers are pinned, probably my medical reports thus far, and clearly brightening at the sight of me sitting upright and staring right into ocean blue eyes with an obvious hope of getting an explanation for the current circumstances. If somebody knows the finer details of what the situation, it has to be this member of staff.

'Oh, thank goodness you're awake.' Hastily, almost at a running pace, the young woman with hazelnut brown hair tied into a ponytail approaches the bed, halting at the edge with an investigative glint in her eyes. 'For how long have you been conscious again?'

'Frankly, I just woke up.' A white-hot pain comes out of nowhere and sears through the mind, making brows furrow in agony as a palm presses against the forehead in a hopeless effort to repress it. 'Ah, crap.'

Gentle palms push shoulders down into the pillows without difficulty, the professional's voice friendly upon speaking after giving a glass of clear water from the tab and a painkiller from the bottle on the nightstand. 'Easy, you've been in an accident that caused a light concussion. Everything else is fine, merely a few bruises and cuts, some of which had to be stitched after removing the glass from them, hence is why you're kinda resembling a mummy.' A brief melodic chuckle before the lady turns serious once more. 'Also, you may have trouble remembering certain things, but the amnesia should fade over time. Otherwise, as I said, it's nothing severe.'

Was I in an accident? Those two lights... were they... from a car?

It is a blessing to know no major damage was dealt and the physical aftermath is not as grand as it could have been had the situation played out differently, but nonetheless, it is shameful significant detailed memories as to what occurred that has gotten me here, body broken and mind empty of recollections that matter, form part of the cost of still being alive. All endeavours to fight the already lost battle, disbelief of no longer knowing anything before the point of unlucky tidings warring against the fact the reflections simply are not there nor will resurface any time soon, if at all.

'How did I get here?' At last the mental battlefield is left behind to inquire as to the answer that could not be formed on its own, curiosity prevailing over the utter sense of powerlessness thanks to not being able to do such a simple thing myself.

'There came a call yesterday night that a car had been hit by a truck on the main road and crashed, the driver was unconscious and wounded, but no major injuries for as far as could be told. Immediately an ambulance was dispatched to the scene to pick you up and bring you to the ER at once. You were operated and all internal bleedings were easily stopped and, as I mentioned, the deepest cuts were stitched. You've been unconscious for a day, but we knew you'd survive.' A soft smile plays on thin lips, gaze caring like a mother's, indicating this woman truly loves the job of being a lifesaver. Suddenly, those concerned eyes widen in surprise, seemingly forgotten to mention something. 'Right, I should tell you this. There was a man with you, mid-twenties with broad shoulders. When asked who he was, he identified himself as your boyfriend and the caller.'

Boyfriend? Do I have a relationship?

Surely, that cannot be correct. A romantic interest in the opposite sex resulting in a bond has not happened for a long time. The last time was three years ago, if anything is to be salvaged from the chaos that are the remaining thoughts. Although, the minor head trauma can influence the workings of the mind, but certainly not enough that I cannot recall such an important detail about life before the accident.

I would remember if I had a partner. Clearly, a mistake has been made, a misunderstanding due to the panic and haste to restrict the rate of injury. I haven't had a relationship in three years. Nor have had any interest in it after the last cheater.

'Y/N!' a voice by the door calls. A tall young man with handsome features, plump deep pink lips, messy hair tinted a warm shade of autumnal brown, undoubtedly many times run through with fingers, dressed in a stone grey Puma hoodie above skinny dark jeans complimenting the black strings of the top and equally coloured sneakers enters the room. If no mistake is to be made, the stranger is the significant other who called to report the gruesome event.

'Well, speak of the Devil and he shall appear,' the nurse mumbles, statement slightly muffled under her breath. Calm seas look reassuringly at the face containing traces of the fading mental pain. 'I'll give you two some space. Just press the button on the edge of the bed if you need anything and I'll check up on you later anyway.'

A nod of gratitude and the caretaker is off to the next patient, echoing footsteps on linoleum slowly becoming inaudible as the distance grows.

The young man slides the tall alabaster chair from the corner to the side of the bed, long fingers hesitantly wrapping around the so much smaller bandaged ones, clearly afraid to worsen the fragile condition. Directly, it is clear from attitude he is a gentleman who cannot help but greatly care for another's well-being, Indian ink eyes showing a mixture of worry and relief. 'You gave me a heart attack when I found your car on the way home from the restaurant. What even were you doing driving so late at night?' The stressed punishing tone lowers and changes into a soft-spoken kindheartedness, the hand formerly holding mine now lovingly caressing the locks covering the bandage around the head. 'You should tell your boss to stop giving you so many publicity assignments, you're not a design machine. Those adverts can wait, dear, unlike your health.'

Right, I'm a PR agent in the creative communications department of a mobile brand. I remember that as clearly as my name. However, who are you?

A desperation to call him by his name stirs within, to grasp this very first aspect of the life lead before it temporarily stopped and could have ended, to savour the mere small joy of regaining a part of the self that is lost and provide solace to us both. And yet, it is not possible, the wish too far out of reach to be granted and that realization causes a funny mixture of confusion and sorrow. 'I- I'm sorry, but everything is hazy and-'

Cold lifeless eyes stare at me, all comfort erased after the shock of deducing the cluelessness of the reply has sunken in, not having been prepared by anybody for what burden fate has in store for the relationship we once had. 'You have no idea who I am, do you?'

There is barely courage to meet the lingering calculating scrutiny again after averting sight to the left bandaged hand as if it contains the solution to the problem, too afraid to see the hurt hiding beneath the ice that has sucked away all hope, frozen and shattered it in an instant.

A deep breath, it gathering enough bravery to do so nonetheless, heart heavy with the need to apologize despite not being able to do anything about the fault in memory. 'Believe me when I say I wish I could. Because I... I-' Whatever dike held back the tears has been breached, voice washed away and the remnants of it watery and barely coherent. 'I want to remember, live the life left behind and move on. But I can't because of amnesia and the fear of never being able to recall all that was before.'

Long arms pick me gently up from the mattress, hold the heavily trembling self against a broad warm chest as digits run through hair, endeavouring to stop the sadness yet only enhancing it with the loving gesture that feels so foreign and undeserved for the visitor is but a stranger to me whilst I was the woman he loved.

I am the woman he loves, in spite of the pain the world has unintentionally inflicted on us.

'It's alright, Y/N. Eventually, your memory will return and everything will be as it was before. Until then,' not unkindly he pries the fingers unconsciously clamping the velvety hoodie loose and grabs the upper arms with consideration to hold me at arm's length, 'I'm Seokjin, your boyfriend of two years and chef at my family's restaurant in the city. We live together in a small condo overlooking the river because you love gazing out over it and can do so all day long, observing the way the sun plays tricks on and colours the water's surface.'

A vague trace of recognition of this particular reason for choosing the apartment resurfaces, although the rest of it interior-wise or precise location remains unknown. But this tiny bit of indie is enough for now, just as sufficient as the slight lifting of the dark veil in the former beloved's stare, revealing a hope which shall feasibly not be in vain.

At least it is a starting point to work from.

A beginning to an old road.

—☤—

Three more days pass before Y/N is finally legible to be fired from the hospital and at last, is mine to care for once again. Despite the amnesia, which surely shall fade soon according to the doctor who was put in charge of the significant other that still forms the world even though the importance of the idea is forgotten. It was a small believable comfort and with a renewed hope it was held on to. However, all is different from before and every beacon of a fortunate past is shot down with disappointment in the period that follows the homecoming.

The four blank walls and wenge floor cheered up by orange accents in the interior via the leather couch with its intricately patterned pillows on which she used to rest the head overworked by creative endeavours for a highly-demanding boss every night, always immediately placing one in my lap when I sat down next to her, and a few terracotta pots containing cacti of all sorts on the coffee table doing as much for remembrance as the fake African rug draped over a spalted mango rack that was once in function as a ladder.

To perchance enhance the progress in recovering the loss of recollection faster, photo albums containing our most beautiful moments in life are looked up and narrated on evenings we are both home, though the woman that once held the shared future often goes through them alone, expression puzzled and that showing in the furrowed brows above considering eyes, the moments continuing to appear foreign as if from another dimension.

No, I have to keep believing Y/N still holds the key to a life together. One of these days she'll remember, come back to me. She has to.

But the meanings of the images are empty, just like the bed despite lying beside each other underneath the broken white sheets and burnt orange blanket, our heads resting on a collection of pale pillows disrupted by one matching the quilt and one printed with rich dark green palm leaves. Previously, the entire night could be spent looking at the most important girl in life in spite of having to go to the farmer's market early in the morn to stock up on ingredients for the restaurant. There was an expectation, a foolish one in hindsight, that habit could be continued after the return.

Not only the accounted traces of the past have become devoid of the love they once contained, happy smiles and affection frozen in time, a young couple blissfully ignorant of what was to come and carefree in their life together, but the gestures in the current time have as well. Hugs are hesitantly answered before heading out the door for work, fingers twiddle uncertainly since it is unclear whether they have permission to entwine with the ones which have no recollection of ever doing so and eventually give up, forehead kisses are given but not received with the same joy as before, merely seeing them as another effort to restore something we both know is broken beyond repair yet remain holding on to the ridiculous idea that notion can change, walks in the park and nights out feel forced, the pleasantness they provided now an aspect of dreams.

The fight continues nonetheless because there is nothing more worth fighting for than a lover, exhausting the mind daily during every waking hour and even in slumber when dreams repeat the sweet memories having gained a trait that delivers a sour taste in the mouth upon waking. Though the shows of what once was are not strictly nightmares, they are not far off from the definition.

But at last, the war ends one evening after coming home late from work, when I find Y/N standing in front of the bathroom mirror after brushing her teeth, ready to go to the loveless bed for another repeating of a hollow evening. The defeat is clearly plastered across the delicate face that used to light up when noticing me standing in the doorway, observing every movement whilst feeling the most fortunate man on Earth to have found such a marvellous girl, that positivity now corrupted by watery dim eyes I no longer recognize nor do they me. The warrior has put down the weapon ferociously used on the battlefield of remembrance, knowing there is no other way to survive any longer than via surrendering.

There is an attempt at a smile to keep up appearances, but it is fake and dropped quickly at the observation of me knowing this when gazes meet via the mirror, a sliver of the hurt that is felt portrayed in the tear running down the cheek. The overall display roots feet already hopeless and thus unable to set a step forward to provide comfort extra in place on the threshold and tightens the crossing of arms over the chest, bracing the body for whatever is to come for there is an anticipation the descend into ruin has perchance come at its cruel end.

'I can't do this anymore.' The meek tired tone breaks the heart into a million crystalline shards, the sobs indicating the composure that has been desperately tried to be regained the past two months has been too. 'I really can't, Seokjin.' Digits clamping the sink let go and the lady that has become a familiar stranger turns away from it to properly face the man who has endeavoured to reacquire the significance and meaning of the relationship gone incredibly awry. 'I tried to love you again, hoping to get a helpful flashback if I answered your gestures and simply looked at the pictures. To recall the past we have when discussing topics over dinner or via text messages, but I can't. You're an amazing guy, don't ever doubt that and I understand why the committed me from before loved you, but I'm no longer her. I want to be free, form a new life instead of being restricted and bound to one that essentially means nothing to me, doesn't feel right. I- I'm so sorry.'

With effort, I detach from the doorframe and step towards the brave girl trying to withhold the breakdown, nevertheless giving in when a hand affectionately caresses smooth locks they probably will never feel again. 'It's alright.' It comes out as a sentence from a script that has been rehearsed many times, but the automatics of the words mask the barely contained sorrow at having lost the prosperous future in a wonderful world. 'We at least tried and it simply didn't work. Neither of us is at fault for it, so please don't think that later when you look back at this moment.'

A small thumb reaches up to wipe away the stray teardrop streaming down, the body instinctively leaning into the touch, wanting to engrave it in mayhaps the last memory directly created by her. 'Look at what you've done, making us both cry.' Uncharacteristically of this new persona, Y/N wraps her short arms around the waist and buries her face in the fabric of the same Puma hoodie worn on the day after the accident. Breathing shiveringly, an unexpected question is asked in a manner that unmistakably means farewell. 'Will you be okay?'

'How do you mean?'

No, I won't be for a long time. However, knowing you'll be fine makes the scar left behind by this more bearable.

She looks up, a slight shimmer in the gaze saying the well-being of the renewed old self shall be fine yet wonders if the one of the other will be as well. 'I'm going to live with my parents for a while until I find a new place. I just can't seem to fully settle down beneath this roof, so I think it's best to go. Will you let me, even if it means I leave you forever?'

I don't really have a choice, do I?