Aliya lay in her bed, the moonlight casting a soft glow through the sheer curtains. She turned to her right, seeking the familiar presence of Dylan. Her hand reached out, fingers brushing against the cool, empty sheets where he should have been. Her heart ached with longing as she hugged the pillow, trying to capture his scent, the comforting mix of cedarwood and fresh rain that always made her feel safe.

The warmth she expected was missing. Aliya frowned, eyes still closed, willing herself to feel his presence. Slowly, she opened her eyes, her heart pounding in her chest. There he was, lying beside her, his face relaxed in peaceful slumber. Relief washed over her, and she allowed herself a small smile.

But something was wrong. Dylan's face began to fade, the edges blurring as if he were dissolving into the air. Panic surged through Aliya. She reached out, trying to hold on to him, but her hands passed through nothingness. She screamed his name, a desperate, heart-wrenching cry that echoed in the empty room. "Dylan!"

Her voice shattered the stillness of the night. Suddenly, she heard a thumping sound, distant at first, but growing louder with each passing second. Thump. Thump. Thump. The sound intensified, morphing into a frantic, loud knocking that seemed to come from all around her.

Aliya's eyes flew open, and she sat up in bed, breathing heavily, her heart racing. She took a few moments to realize she had been dreaming. The room was still dimly lit by the early morning sun filtering through the curtains, casting long shadows across the floor. The knocking at her bedroom door continued, steady and persistent.

Pushing the covers aside, Aliya swung her legs over the edge of the bed and stood up, her bare feet sinking into the plush carpet. She took a deep breath, trying to calm her racing heart, and walked over to the door. She opened it to find a woman standing there.

The woman looked to be about her age, with blonde hair pulled back into a neat ponytail. She had a fuller figure and wore a crisp white apron over her clothes. Her face was round, with kind blue eyes that sparkled with a hint of nervousness.

"Who are you?" Aliya asked, still groggy from sleep.

"I'm Martha, Miss Day," the woman replied with a warm smile. "I'm your cook. Your breakfast is ready."

Aliya blinked, trying to process this new information. She hadn't expected to have a cook, let alone one who seemed so cheerful so early in the morning. She glanced at the clock on her bedside table; it was just past eight.

Walking into the kitchen, Aliya noticed how everything was impeccably organized. The countertops were spotless, and the stainless-steel appliances gleamed. Martha was already busy at the counter, her hands moving deftly as she prepared something in a food processor.

Aliya sat at the breakfast bar, her eyes locked onto a bowl of greenish puree. The sunlight streamed through the floor-to-ceiling windows of the luxurious New York apartment, casting a soft glow on the marble countertops. She frowned, the color of the puree eliciting a vague, unpleasant feeling.

Her fingers traced the rim of the porcelain bowl, the smoothness grounding her in the present. She glanced up, her expression a mixture of confusion and skepticism. "Are you sure I like this stuff?" she asked, her voice edged with uncertainty.

Martha stood on the other side of the kitchen island, her face open and sincere. Her light greyish eyes reflecting genuine concern. "I don't know, Miss Day. You usually have this with your vitamin pills and an egg."

Aliya sighed and pushed the bowl away slightly, the metal spoon clinking against the bowl. "You can call me Aliya," she said, her tone softer now, almost pleading.

Martha looked momentarily perplexed, her brows furrowing slightly. "But, Miss Day... you asked me to call you that."

Aliya's brows knitted together as she struggled to assemble the scattered pieces of her memory. Everything felt disjointed, like she was inhabiting someone else's life, staring out through a stranger's eyes. Her fingers tapped rhythmically on the countertop, a subconscious attempt to draw out some clarity.

"Martha, do you know where my mobile phone is?" she asked, frustration lacing her tone. She shifted in her seat, her movements tense and agitated. Martha shook her head, a flicker of fear crossing her face, her hands clasping together nervously.

Had she been harsh with Martha before? Aliya hoped not. She didn't want to be someone who frightened others. She glanced back at the bowl, trying to find something familiar in the unfamiliar. The apartment, with its minimalist decor and pristine surfaces, felt cold and impersonal.

"It looks delightful," she said, her voice dripping with sarcasm as she swirled the spoon through the mixture. She took a deep breath, her chest rising and falling as she tried to steady herself. With a hesitant hand, she lifted a spoonful to her lips. The spoon hovered there for a moment before she closed her eyes and took the plunge. Rolling the puree around on her tongue, she swallowed and nodded slowly, the hint of a smile playing at the corners of her mouth.

"Alright. That's... hmm. Well, it's not bad, actually," she admitted, a touch of surprise coloring her words. Her shoulders relaxed slightly, the tension easing from her body.

Martha, who had been watching her closely, offered a tentative smile in return. "You can use my phone if you need to call someone," she said suddenly, her voice soft and filled with concern. Her hands unclasped and she gestured towards her pocket.

Aliya's eyes flicked to Martha, searching her face for any sign of discomfort. Martha's expression remained calm and reassuring, her gentle smile never wavering. Aliya then glanced toward the doorway, feeling a heavy sinking in her heart. "Did Vincent leave?" she asked, her voice barely above a whisper, her fingers curling around the edge of the kitchen counter as if it were a lifeline.

Martha nodded, her eyes filled with quiet understanding. "Yes, he left just after I arrived."

Aliya felt a mix of relief and sadness wash over her, like a wave retreating from the shore. She wanted to ask more about Vincent, to piece together fragments of her lost memories, but before she could, the doorbell rang. The sudden sound made her jump, clutching the counter even tighter, her knuckles turning white.

Martha's face brightened with a knowing smile. "That must be Luke." She moved towards the door with a graceful confidence that Aliya envied, her movements fluid and purposeful.

Aliya watched Martha's retreating form, trying to organize the swirling thoughts in her mind. She heard the door open, followed by the sound of a familiar voice. Luke entered the room, his tall frame and blonde hair both a comforting presence and a source of unease for Aliya. He had been a constant during her hospital stay, but her fragmented memories made it hard to reconcile her feelings towards him.

"How are you feeling today?" Luke asked, his voice gentle but probing, his eyes searching her face for any signs of improvement.

Aliya's frustration bubbled to the surface. "The same as before," she snapped, her eyes narrowing. She hated the helplessness she felt, the constant confusion and gaps in her memory.

Luke's smile faltered for a brief moment before he quickly masked it with understanding. His eyes, though still warm, held a glint of sadness. He took a seat across from her, his posture relaxed but his shoulders slightly hunched with worry. Martha continued to move around the kitchen, her actions efficient yet comfortingly familiar. "Coffee with a bit of creamer, right?" she asked Luke without looking up.

Luke nodded, keeping his focus on Aliya. "Yes, please. Thank you, Martha."

Martha started brewing the coffee, her movements smooth and deliberate. Aliya traced the patterns on her mug with her finger, the motion both soothing and distracting. Her brow furrowed as she fought to remember something, anything. "I need my phone," she demanded suddenly, her voice sharp, her eyes flashing with a desperate need for control.

Luke sighed, pulling out a sleek new smartphone from his pocket. "Your old phone was damaged in the accident," he explained softly, placing the new one in front of her.

Aliya picked up the phone, feeling a mix of relief and irritation. She turned it over in her hands, its smooth surface cool and unfamiliar. "You should have given this to me sooner," she muttered, her fingers brushing over the screen as if it might jog her memory.

"I wanted to make sure you were ready for it," Luke replied patiently, his eyes never leaving her face. There was a tenderness there, a patience that seemed infinite.

Aliya felt a wave of exhaustion wash over her. The constant struggle to piece together her life was wearing her down. "I think you and Martha should take the day off," she said, her tone weary, her eyes closing for a brief moment. "I need to be alone."

Luke's brow furrowed, concern deepening the lines on his face. "Are you sure, Aliya? We can stay if you need us."

"I need to be alone," Aliya repeated firmly, her eyes meeting Luke's with a steely determination. Her jaw was set, her lips pressed into a thin line, a small tremble betraying the storm inside her. Luke and Martha exchanged a worried glance, their silent communication speaking volumes. Their concern, their hesitation—it all felt like another world to her, one she could no longer reach.

"Please leave," Aliya said loudly, her voice breaking the thick silence. She saw the pain flash across Luke's face, a mirror of her own confusion and frustration. He sighed, a heavy, resigned sound that seemed to echo through the room.

"Alright," Luke nodded, his eyes lingering on her for a moment longer. "I'll drop Martha home."

Aliya nodded in return, a quick, tight movement. She wasn't sure why she knew Martha didn't have a car. It was like a fragment of a dream; a piece of a life she couldn't fully grasp.

Martha moved quickly, almost frantically, cleaning the counter and switching off the hob. Her movements were hurried, but her eyes kept darting back to Aliya, filled with a mix of worry and helplessness. "Take care, Aliya. Call us if you need anything," she said softly, her voice trembling slightly.

"Yes, please call us," Luke added, his tone earnest, almost pleading.

Aliya nodded again, her throat tight with emotion. She stood there, frozen, as they left, the quietness of the house pressing in on her like a physical weight. She clutched her new phone tightly, its cold surface a stark contrast to the warmth she desperately sought. Her fingers trembled as she began scrolling through the contacts, searching for Dylan's name.

Nothing.

There were no texts saved in WhatsApp from her previous phone, no traces of their last conversation, nothing. It was as if she had cleared them all out, erased every piece of him from her life. Why would she do that? What had happened between them? The questions swirled in her mind, a storm of confusion and longing.

"God, I wish I could just fucking remember," she whispered, her voice breaking. The silence of the house seemed to amplify her words, making her desperation feel even more profound.

Before she could stop herself, she dialed Dylan's number, fingers trembling. It was surprise to her that she remembered his number though not save in her contact.

Aliya sank onto the couch, her body curling into itself, her gaze drifting to the Hudson River beyond her floor-to-ceiling windows. The world outside seemed vast and indifferent, a stark contrast to the turmoil inside her. She felt small, insignificant, and lost in the luxurious apartment.

Her hands trembled as she reached for her phone, her fingers hovering over the screen. She wasn't sure why she did it, but before she could stop herself, she dialed Dylan's number. It was a surprise that she remembered it. Her heart pounded with each ring, the seconds stretching into an eternity. When Dylan finally answered, his voice was heavier than she remembered but still sweet, like a distant melody from a forgotten dream.

"Hello?" Dylan's voice was cautious, guarded.

Aliya's breath hitched. She felt dizzy, the room spinning around her. "Dylan, it's me... Aliya," she mumbled, her voice barely above a whisper. "Aliya Arc..." She hesitated, almost using his surname, the one she had once thought would be hers. "Dey," she corrected herself, pinching the bridge of her nose, convinced this was a terrible idea.

Aliya could almost hear the gears turning in his mind, imagining the furrowed brow and the pensive look she remembered so well. She gripped the phone tighter, her knuckles white, her breath shallow. "Aliya," he finally said, his voice softer, tinged with something she couldn't quite place—relief, maybe, or pain. "I didn't expect to hear from you."

His words hung in the air between them, laden with the weight of the years they had been apart. Aliya closed her eyes, trying to steady her breathing. "Dylan," she began, her voice barely above a whisper, "I... I don't really know how to say this. I had an accident."

The silence that followed was almost unbearable. She could picture him on the other end, his expression a mix of shock and confusion. "I heard about it on the news," he responded slowly, his tone awkward, as if he was trying to navigate through a minefield. "Are you alright?"

Aliya let out a low breath, her fingers brushing against the scar on her forehead. "Not really," she admitted, her voice cracking. "I feel like I'm still twenty-four, calling my husband." She paused, feeling the sting of reality.

A sharp intake of breath from Dylan was the only response at first, followed by a strained correction. "I'm not your husband anymore, Aliya."

She winced at the reminder, her heart squeezing painfully in her chest. "I know. I guess I'm... okay, despite everything. Trying to be, anyway."

Dylan's voice was tentative, laced with awkwardness. "I heard about the accident on the news. Are you alright?"

A bitter laugh escaped her lips, the sound echoing in the quiet room. "No, not really. It's been... disorienting, to say the least. I woke up in a world that feels like a stranger. They tell me I'm a celebrity now. And apparently, I got a nose job. Can you believe that?"

There was a pause, and then Dylan's voice, firmer now, broke in. "Aliya, I don't think it's a good idea for you to be calling me."

The statement hit her like a physical blow, and she leaned her uninjured side against the wall behind the couch, the solidity grounding her. "Why not?" she asked, her voice a fragile whisper.

"Because," he said, and she could hear the struggle in his tone, a war between concern and distance, "we haven't spoken in over two and a half years. Even if you don't remember, you wouldn't have wanted to talk to me if you hadn't had the accident. A month ago, you wouldn't have wanted anything to do with me."

Aliya's brow furrowed, her eyes filling with unshed tears.

"But I don't remember," she whispered, her voice breaking. "I don't remember why."

On the other end of the line, Dylan sighed deeply, the sound heavy with resignation. "Aliya," he began, his tone weary, "we're not together anymore." Each word was a dagger, slicing through the frail thread of hope she had unknowingly clung to.

Aliya closed her eyes, tears spilling down her cheeks. Her body trembled with a mixture of frustration and longing. "Please!" Aliya's voice quivered.

Dylan's silence was a cruel answer. "I can't do this, Aliya," he said finally, the exhaustion evident in his voice. "I can't pretend everything is the same. It wouldn't be fair to you or me." "Our marriage holds my memories too," he continued, not sounding angry, just profoundly tired. "Some things are better left untouched."

Aliya closed her eyes, her mind a storm of confusion and sorrow. "But it's not a decision you can make alone," she insisted, her voice cracking under the weight of her emotions.

"I'm not doing this," Dylan finally said, his voice firm but sorrowful. "I'm not going to argue with you, Aliya. I have to go."

In the background, she heard a muffled voice, someone else speaking. It felt like a dagger twisting in her heart, the reality of their separation cutting through her like a cold wind. She didn't respond, the words caught in her throat. The line went dead, leaving her in the silent expanse of her living room, the plush couch a stark contrast to the emptiness she felt inside.

AN:// used playground.ai to make this. :)