The ride to the hospital was suffocatingly silent. Chioma clutched her hands in her lap, her nails digging into her skin. Kelvin drove fast but careful, his jaw clenched, the dashboard clock marking each passing second like a drumbeat against his skull.
When they arrived, the receptionist barely asked for their names before gesturing them down the hall.
"The doctor's waiting for you in his office," she said softly.
Chioma's stomach lurched. Kelvin reached for her hand — just briefly — and they walked down the cold corridor together.
The doctor's face as they entered told them everything before a single word was spoken.
"Please… have a seat," he said, motioning to the chairs across from his desk.
Neither of them spoke. Kelvin's chest felt like it was filled with stones. Chioma's breath came in short, uneven bursts.
"I'll get straight to it," the doctor began. "Justin regained consciousness some hours ago… but there's been a complication. He sustained a significant head injury in the accident. A traumatic brain injury affecting his temporal lobe."
Chioma's eyes filled instantly with tears. "What… what does that mean?"
The doctor sighed, his face etched with the weight of too many hard conversations. "He's suffering from amnesia. Some of his memories have been affected — blocked, fragmented. He might remember certain people and events clearly, some partially, and some… not at all."
Kelvin's fist clenched at his side. "Is it temporary?"
"We can't say for sure," the doctor admitted. "Brain injuries are unpredictable. In some cases, memories return gradually over days, weeks… sometimes months. In other cases… they may never fully come back."
Chioma felt like she was suffocating. She pressed a hand to her chest, as though trying to hold her heart in place. "So… he might not remember us?"
"It's possible," the doctor said gently. "He might recognize a face but not recall the name, or feel a certain way around someone without understanding why. Emotional memory can linger, even when the details don't."
Kelvin ran a hand over his face, swallowing the lump in his throat. "Can we see him?"
The doctor gave a small nod. "Yes. But I'd advise you to take it slow. Don't force him to remember. Let it come to him naturally… if it will."
Chioma wiped her face roughly, standing before Kelvin could say anything. He followed her silently, and together they walked toward Justin's room, each step heavier than the last.
Outside the door, Kelvin placed a hand on her arm.
"Chioma… whatever happens in there, we handle it. Together."
She nodded, her lips trembling.
And then, without another word, Kelvin opened the door.
There, lying on the hospital bed, pale and bruised, was Justin — his eyes open, staring at the ceiling like he didn't quite belong to the world anymore.
Chioma's breath caught in her throat.
And in that awful, suspended moment before he looked their way, she silently begged for just one thing.
Please… let him remember me.
--------
Kelvin stepped into the room first. The steady beep of the heart monitor was the only sound, a cold reminder that Justin was alive, even if parts of him had slipped away.
Justin's head turned slowly toward the movement, his gaze landing on Kelvin — but there was nothing there. No spark of recognition. No warmth. Just a distant, hollow stare, like he was looking at a stranger who happened to know his name.
Kelvin swallowed hard. "Bro… it's me. Kelvin."
Justin blinked, his brows drawing together as if trying to reach for a memory that refused to surface. "Kelvin," he repeated softly, tasting the word, but it meant nothing to him.
Kelvin felt a sick, helpless twist in his chest, but he managed a nod, stepping back to give room.
Chioma moved forward, her steps slow and uncertain, her heart pounding against her ribs.
"Justin," she called gently.
At the sound of her voice, Justin's head snapped toward her, his bloodshot eyes narrowing. He inhaled deeply, a frown pulling at his bruised face.
"That scent…" he murmured, his voice cracking. His eyes closed for a moment as if the smell of her was a tether in a storm. "Chioma… why… why can't I remember your face… or anything about you?" His voice trembled, raw and confused. "Just your scent… and your name… that's all I have."
A tiny, hopeful smile broke through Chioma's tears. It wasn't everything — but it was something.
She hurried to his bedside, lowering herself onto the chair beside him. Gently, she reached for his hand, her fingers curling around his as if anchoring him to the part of his life that still remembered her.
"Yes," she whispered, her throat tight. "That's my name. Chioma. I'm right here."
Justin's grip weakly tightened around hers. His eyes stayed on her face, searching, desperate, lost.
"I'm sorry," he said, tears gathering in the corners of his eyes. "I should know you. I feel like… I feel like you're important. But it's all just… dark."
Chioma shook her head, brushing a stray tear from his cheek. "It's okay," she whispered. "We'll figure this out. I'm not going anywhere."
Kelvin stood at the foot of the bed, watching them both, a silent storm in his chest. Part relief, part ache. The girl Justin could barely remember was the one Kelvin couldn't forget.
And as Justin closed his eyes, still clinging to her hand, Kelvin knew the road ahead had just become infinitely more complicated.
But for now... all that mattered was that Justin remembers something, even if it's her.