Chapter 76

Chapter 76
KAIA

The first thing I notice is the light.

Soft, warm, and entirely too bright for my eyes that feel like they've been sealed shut for years. I try to blink, but even that simple action feels monumental—like lifting weights with my eyelids. Everything is heavy. My arms, my legs, even my thoughts move like they're underwater.

Where am I?

The question floats through my mind, but grasping for an answer feels impossible. It's like trying to catch smoke with bare hands. I know I should know this. I should know something. But there's just... emptiness where memories should be.

I force my eyes open wider, squinting against the brightness. White ceiling. The steady beep of machines somewhere to my right. The antiseptic smell that can only mean one thing.

Hospital.

But why? What happened to me?

My fingers twitch against soft cotton sheets as I try to lift my hand. It takes three attempts before I can actually move it, and even then it feels like it belongs to someone else. I'm weak—so incredibly weak that just turning my head to the side exhausts me.

That's when I see them.

Pink roses. A dozen of them, maybe more, sitting in a clear vase on the bedside table. They're beautiful—fresh and full, like someone just brought them today. Something about the sight of them makes my chest tighten with an emotion I can't name. They feel... familiar. Important. Like I should love them.

Do I love pink roses?

I don't know. I don't know anything.

Next to the flowers sits a book. A hardcover romance novel—"My Arrogant Neighbor," the title stirring a faint ripple in my heart—warmth? Perhaps Amy had brought it while I was unconscious; she always knew my reading preferences.

My hand shakes as I reach for the book. It's heavier than expected, or maybe I'm just weaker than I thought. The cover is soft beneath my fingertips, and there's something almost reverent about the way I handle it. Like it means something to me.

Like it's precious.

I open it to the first page, and my breath catches.

There, in careful handwriting across the top of the page, are words that make my heart stutter:

"To my beloved Kaia, may you always find your happy ending. All my love, Adrien."

I stare at the words until they blur together. Read them again. And again.

Adrien.

The name doesn't spark recognition, but something about seeing it written there—All my love, Adrien—makes my stomach flip. The handwriting is neat, masculine, with a slight slant to the right. It looks... familiar. Like I've seen it before, many times.

But I don't remember anyone named Adrien.

I don't remember anything.

The panic hits me like a wave, sudden and overwhelming. My breathing quickens as the reality crashes over me. I don't know where I am. I don't know how I got here. I don't know who Adrian is, or what happened between us.

I don't know anything about my own life.

"No, no, no," I whisper, my voice hoarse and strange to my own ears. I clutch the book tighter, as if it might hold answers. "Come on, Kaia. Think. Remember something. Anything."

But there's nothing. Just a vast, empty space where my memories should be.

My chest starts to feel tight, and the beeping of the machines seems to quicken. I need help. I need someone to explain what's happening to me. I reach for what I hope is a call button, my hand fumbling along the bed rail until I find a small remote with buttons.

I'm about to press one when the door opens.

A man walked in, carrying a bag of chips that rustled with each step. He was tall, with a head of messy black hair that looked like he had come running. When he saw me—truly saw me awake and conscious—he froze, his chips and bag falling to the floor.

The relief and joy that wash over his features are so intense, so raw, that for a moment I forget to breathe. He's looking at me like I'm the answer to every prayer he's ever said, like I'm something precious that he thought he'd lost forever.

"Kaia," he says, and his voice breaks on my name. "Kaia, you're awake. You're really awake."

He drops the bag on the chair and rushes to my bedside, his movements quick but careful. There are tears in his eyes—actual tears—and the smile on his face is so bright it could power the entire hospital.

Before I can process what's happening, before I can speak or move or do anything, he's reaching for me. His arms circle around me gently but firmly, pulling me into an embrace that feels like coming home and being kidnapped at the same time.

"Oh my god—Kaia," he whispers against my hair. "You’re awake. Fuck, you’re awake."

“You have no idea—no fucking idea—how long I’ve been waiting for this.”

The contact sends shock waves through my system. This stranger—this man I don't know—is holding me like I'm the most important thing in his world. His cologne is unfamiliar, his touch is foreign, but there's something about being in his arms that makes a part of me want to relax into it.

But the bigger part, the scared and confused part, recoils.

“No! Leave me alone!” My voice was hoarse and barely audible, from not speaking for so long. I could only push against his chest with my last bit of strength.

He releases me immediately, stumbling backward with shock written all over his face. I press myself against the headboard, putting as much distance between us as possible.

"Do I... do I know you?" My voice comes out shaky, high-pitched with fear, as I struggled to ask.

The blood drained from the man’s face instantly. His expression froze—thick with shock and sorrow.He stood rooted to the spot. A faint whisper escaped his lips: “What?”

I forced my courage up and asked again: “Who are you?”

Suddenly, things turned weird. He heard my voice—went dead quiet, like he’d confirmed something. Tears flooded his eyes in an instant, and the grief in those green irises almost drowned me. Then, doctors and nurses filed in one after another. He seemed to snap out of his sadness, stepping back slowly before leaving.

I watch his retreating figure until he disappears completely from view, something hollow and aching settling in my chest. Even after the door clicks shut behind him, I can't shake the image of his broken expression—the way his shoulders seemed to carry the weight of the world as he walked away.

Why does watching him leave hurt so much when I don't even know who he is?

The thought disturbs me more than I want to admit.

"Alright, honey, let's get some of these monitors moved so Dr. Harrison can examine you properly," the nurse says, efficiently disconnecting wires and wheeling away the heavier equipment. Her movements are practiced, gentle, designed not to startle me.

But when Dr. Harrison approaches the bed, clipboard in hand, and reaches toward me to check my pulse, I instinctively flinch away from his touch. My body reacts before my mind can process it, pulling back against the headboard like his fingers might burn me.

Dr. Harrison pauses, his hand hovering in the air between us. After seeing my face, there's something in his expression that shifts from professional concern to something deeper—worry, maybe even alarm.

"Miss Lilian," he says carefully, his accent tinged with what sounds like concern, "are you experiencing any discomfort? Any pain?"

The sudden question catches me off guard. There's an urgency in his voice that makes my stomach twist with anxiety. "I... what do you mean? Is something wrong with my face?"

My hand flies to my cheek before I can stop it, and that's when I feel them—wet tracks running down my skin. When did I start crying? I don't remember crying. I don't remember feeling the tears fall or tasting salt on my lips.

"I'm sorry," I whisper, hastily wiping at my face with the back of my hand. "I didn't realize..."

Dr. Harrison's expression softens, and he pulls a chair closer to the bed, settling into it so we're at eye level. His name badge reads Dr. Robert Harrison, Neurology, and something about the kindness in his weathered face makes me feel marginally safer.

"Miss Lilian," he says gently, "can you tell me what you remember about the time before your accident?"

I close my eyes and try to push through the fog in my mind, searching for anything—a face, a memory, a feeling. But there's nothing there except emptiness and the lingering ache in my chest from watching that man walk away.

"Nothing," I admit, opening my eyes to meet his concerned gaze. "I don't remember anything at all."

Dr. Harrison nods slowly, like he expected this answer but hoped he wouldn't hear it. He sets his clipboard aside and leans forward slightly.

"Miss Lilian—Kaia," he says, using my first name like it might anchor me somehow. "Six months ago, you were involved in a serious motorcycle accident. You sustained severe head trauma and have been in a coma since that night. The fact that you're awake and alert now is honestly miraculous, but some memory loss after this type of injury is not uncommon."

Six months. The words echo in my mind like stones dropped into a deep well. Six months of my life, gone. Six months of experiences, conversations, relationships—all erased like they never existed.

"Will it come back?" I ask, my voice barely above a whisper. "My memory, I mean. Will I remember... him? Will I remember who I used to be?"

Dr. Harrison's pause tells me everything I need to know before he even speaks.

"We'll need to run some tests," he says carefully. "Every case is different, Kaia. Some patients recover their memories gradually over time. Others..." He trails off, but the implication hangs heavy in the air between us.

“Others never remember at all.”