Chapter 84

KAIA

The happy face potaters looked up at me mockingly from my plate, its frozen grin a stark contrast to the storm brewing in my chest. I stabbed it with my fork, watching the crispy exterior crack.

The moment I turned and walked away, I already regretted speaking to Adrien like that.

The cafeteria buzzed around me with the usual lunchtime chatter, but I felt isolated in my corner booth, replaying the scene in the library over and over. The way Adrien's face had fallen when I demanded answers, the hurt that flashed in those green eyes before he tried to deflect with talk about my exam. The way Callum had looked between us like he knew something I didn't—which, of course, he did. Everyone did.

I know everyone is trying to protect me. I just can't help it. I really can't.

That was the crux of it, wasn't it? This suffocating sensation of being wrapped in cotton wool, handled with such delicate care that I felt more like a fragile artifact than a living, breathing person. The pressure was coming from all sides—the upcoming exam, the desperate curiosity about who I used to be, the growing resentment at being treated like I was made of glass, and underneath it all, this gnawing panic that everyone knew something I didn't.

Before I was hurt and after I was hurt, it feels like I'm two completely different people. Every time I see their expressions, I feel like they're looking through me at someone else, especially Adrien.

The way he looked at me during our tutoring sessions—there was such tenderness there, such careful patience, but always with this underlying sadness, like he was mourning someone. Was he mourning the old me? The Kaia who apparently knew him well enough to receive books with love notes? The Kaia who had memories I couldn't access, relationships I couldn't remember, a whole life I couldn't reclaim?

The worst part was the isolation. This feeling of being completely alone with my confusion while everyone around me shared a secret I wasn't privy to. The looks they exchanged when they thought I wasn't watching. The careful way they chose their words around me. The questions they wouldn't answer.

I pushed the potato around my plate, appetite gone. The complexity of my emotions felt impossible to untangle—guilt for snapping at people who were only trying to help, frustration at being kept in the dark, fear about what truths they might be hiding, and this bone-deep exhaustion from trying to piece together a puzzle with half the pieces missing.

The fluorescent lights in Dr. Harrison's office buzzed overhead as I clutched my test results, knuckles white against the manila folder. My eyes kept drifting to the brain scans clipped to the light box on the wall—my brain, apparently, looking deceptively normal in shades of gray and white.

"The scan results are clear—no organic abnormalities, neural conductivity is completely normal," Dr. Harrison said, his voice steady and reassuring. "Physically, there's nothing wrong."

My shoulders sagged with relief, then immediately tensed again. "Then why do I feel like... like everyone's looking at me expecting someone else to appear?"

Dr. Harrison was quiet for a moment, studying me with kind eyes that had probably seen countless patients struggle with recovery. When he spoke again, it was softer, more personal. "I've worked with many brain trauma and neurological patients. When there are problems, they show clear pathological evidence. But your concerns—they're buried deeper than neurons and synapses."

Something in his tone opened a floodgate I'd been trying to keep sealed. "I don't know who I used to be," I whispered, the words tumbling out before I could stop them. "But everyone around me expects me to become that person again. I feel like I'm disappointing everyone by just being... me. The me I am now."

Dr. Harrison nodded thoughtfully. "From a neurological standpoint, what you're experiencing is a normal part of psychological adaptation after memory loss. The brain is remarkably plastic—it can adapt and form new neural pathways. You don't need to become anyone else. You are who you are."

He gestured to the medical charts on his desk. "Memory loss can create a disconnect between your sense of self and others' expectations, but that doesn't mean you're broken or inadequate. It means you're human, dealing with an incredibly challenging situation."

"But what if I never remember? What if the person I was is just... gone?"

"Then maybe," Dr. Harrison said gently, "you get to decide who you want to become. I'm a neurosurgeon, not a psychologist, so I can only speak to the medical aspects. But from what I can see, there's nothing physically preventing you from building new memories, new relationships, a new sense of self. You might consider talking to someone who specializes in psychological recovery, but remember—you don't owe anyone a previous version of yourself."

Walking out of the hospital, the test results felt both like a weight lifted and a new burden. Physically normal meant I had no excuse for feeling so lost. But Dr. Harrison's words echoed in my mind: You don't owe anyone a previous version of yourself.

Maybe it was time to stop trying to excavate the past and start building something new.

Adrien

I stared at my phone screen, the cursor blinking in the empty message field like a heartbeat. Three different drafts started and deleted. How was your appointment? Too personal. Hope everything went well today. Too casual. Are you okay? Too loaded.

The war in my head was relentless—every instinct screaming to reach out to Kaia, to comfort her, to tell her everything and damn the consequences, while Mrs. Lilian's words echoed like a mantra: Don't mention your past relationship. If she experiences any distress, the arrangement ends immediately.

I dropped the phone on my desk and buried my face in my hands. The weight of keeping this secret was crushing, but every time I thought about breaking my promise, I remembered the steel in Mrs. Lilian's eyes, the protective fury of a mother who'd almost lost her daughter. She was right to not trust me. I'd failed Kaia once already.

Six months. Kaia had spent six months unconscious, fighting for her life, while I sat vigil knowing it was my fault. There was something almost poetic about my current torment—this constant ache of wanting what I couldn't have, loving someone who didn't remember loving me back. It felt like penance, like maybe if I suffered enough, it would somehow balance the scales for what I'd put her through.

You're a masochist, I told myself, but there was truth in it. This pain connected me to her in the only way I had left. We were both suffering, just in different ways, and somehow that made me feel less alone.

My economics textbook lay open beside my laptop, the pages blurred with unread assignments. Tomorrow's hockey scrimmage loomed—Coach had been riding us hard about maintaining our academic standings, and I was barely treading water. Everything felt impossible to manage while my heart was split in two.

The phone buzzed, making me jump. Amy.

Amy: Kaia's back from the hospital. All clear medically.

Relief flooded through me so intensely I had to sit down. At least that fear could be put to rest.

Amy: She seems a bit down though. Overall she's fine, but I think the exam stress is getting to her.

My stomach clenched. Was it exam stress, or was it my behavior in the library today? The way I'd shut down when she asked about Callum, the secrets I couldn't share, the careful distance I had to maintain while wanting nothing more than to pull her close and tell her everything.

Amy: You guys have that scrimmage tomorrow, right? Maybe invite her to watch? Might help her relax and think about something other than studying.

I stared at the message for a long moment. The suggestion was innocent enough—Amy knew about my promise to Mrs. Lilian, and she understood how I felt about Kaia. Her advice was nothing more than an attempt to ease the hearts of everyone she cared about.

Adrien: I'm not sure that's a good idea.

Amy: Trust me, she needs something to distract her from all this academic pressure. Just a friendly invitation. Nothing complicated.

Nothing complicated. If only she knew how complicated everything had become. But as I sat there in my dorm room, surrounded by unfinished assignments and the weight of unspoken truths, I realized Amy might be right. Maybe Kaia did need a distraction. Maybe we both did.

I opened a new message to Kaia, my fingers hovering over the keyboard. Just a simple invitation. Nothing that would violate my promise to her mother. Nothing that would reveal the depth of what I felt for her.

But still, I hesitated. Because every interaction with her was a reminder of everything I'd lost, everything I could never have again. And I wasn't sure my heart could take much more of that particular kind of beautiful agony.

The cursor blinked steadily, waiting for me to decide.