"Harry," he wipes the tears from his cheeks. "I'm sorry. I love you."

I want to say it back but he's unfamiliar to me. There's a keen softness in his honey colored eyes.

Kindness that makes my heart warm. His eyes crinkle at the corners and he smiles as he recites a poem.

Do not feel lonely,

the entire universe is

inside of you.

"Rumi Harry. You love Rumi."

I give a blank stare and a deep frown sets on his face. I feel guilty for making him sad.

A beach blonde lad peeps in the room. "Hey Har. I'm glad you're okay. We were all so worrried."

I just nod, grateful for his concern.

The tan skinned guy is so beautiful, when he kisses my cheek my heart flutters. I suddenly feel so weak. I don't question it.

"You still seem a bit out of it. Everything will come back to you soon. You'll probably be mad at me and that's okay," he laughs nervously, his fingers running through his soft black hair. "You have every right to be."

"I'm angry at you?"

He knits his brows together and the pale boy with crystal blue eyes shrugs.

"I'm sorry," I whisper softly.

"It's okay babe."

Babe? Babe. My body relaxes a bit as his thumb swipes over my hand.

"I'm never getting on a plane again. But I don't mind the ocean."

He smiles and my heart stutters once again.

There's a chain around my neck with a ring slipped on it. My hand clutches onto it, my eyes focusing on an identical necklace around his olive neck.

A promise ring. I bite at the inside of my cheek. Think Harry. Think.

I know him. I know him. I do.

But then again I don't.

"Liam and Louis are out in the hallway. Li called your mum. Her and Trisha are on the way."

So many names to keep up with.

All I want to remember is the dark skinned one. The one with the long eyelashes and baby pink lips and a striking jawline.

"Zayn," the boy with the Irish accent grabs ahold of his hand.

"Zayn," I mumur to myself. It feels right. It sounds nice. It sounds shivers down my spine. His eyes are wet with tears but he cracks a small smile, his face lighting up as the sound hits his ears.

He must like the way his name rolls off my tongue too.

They speak in hushed tones but the conversation ends abruptly as the doctor walks in. He looks somber, his gaze downcast. He's avoiding Zayn, adverting his eyes and clears his throat.

Everyone looks so damn sad.

The walls are a sterile white and the linen sheets are heavily starched. The room itself smells like pungent lemon cleaner. It's so racid I want to throw up. There are fresh flowers in the vase beside me.

"Brain trauma," I repeat the doctor's words slowly. I don't like the taste of it in my mouth. I want to spit it out, take those words back.

"What," Zayn clutches at his chest. "What are you saying?"

"Brain damage. Memory loss."

"Fuck. Fuck," he yells.

It grows eerily quiet. I can hear my heart ticking.

"I want him back. I want my Harry back." He's shouting at these walls. He's shouting at the man in the white lab coat, shouting at the lad with reddened cheeks and aquamarine eyes. He's shouting at God, cursing his name.

"Zayn," I say hoarsely.

He stops and turns to me, tears streaking down his face.

"It'll be okay."

It isn't very reassuring but he nods his head and swallows.

"Harry," he murmurs. "It's me. It's Zayn." His gentle fingers brush through my hair. "I'm your boyfriend. Say you remember."

Boyfriend.

"You're beautiful," I whisper.

Big mistake. This makes him cry harder, his hand clutching mine. There are faded scars on my wrist and I wonder why I was so sad, what would make me hurt myself like that.

"Don't cry."

"I love you so much. I know you're uncertain. This must be so crazy for you. I know you're confused but believe me."

"I do. I trust you," I whisper.

"You like poetry and chocolate chip pancakes. You like the sound of rain and the noise crisp pages make when you turn them. You like telling shitty jokes but I laugh anyway. Your laughter makes me dizzy and your dimples make my heart dance. You like dancing," he adds with a chuckle. "I'm terrible at dancing. I always step on your feet. You're so incredibly talented, good with your words. I was your English teacher," he smiles. "You are still my favorite student. My favorite everything. I kept all of your assignments. I wrote you a journal. I bookmarked all of my favorite quotes, all of the lovely things you said. I stored them in my heart, embedded them deep inside my memory. I know you can't remember but I'll help you remember. You're a good photographer too. You take so many polaroid pictures," he grins. "You order frilly drinks from Starbucks but I like my coffee black."

It's so much to take in. I try to let it trickle in slowly, filter into my brain, seep into my skin.

Piece by piece I'm stringing things together.

Flashes of us. Not much but enough. Enough to make me say "I think I remember Zayn."

"I love you," he tries again.

"You've said that three times already. I can remember that."

He laughs lightly; brightly.

"That's such a Harry thing to say."

"I can think of something else he would say."

"What's that love?"

His voice. Those words. Surely he's said them a thousand times before.

I can vaguely remember them, murmured late at night in the dark.

"I love you too."

"I haven't lost you. I'm not going to. I'm not giving up on you ever. I'm not giving up on us."

"Can we fall in love all over again? Can you teach me everything there is to know about us?"

"Yes," he smiles. "I am a teacher after all."