Hospital rooms are always bright and clean.

I stood by the bed, held tightly.

Julian really had lost his memory.

He'd moved too quickly—I didn't have time to avoid his embrace.

"Claire."

"I think I've lost my memory. I can't remember anything."

"They say I'm twenty-six now. Is that true?"

His voice was hoarse and trembling. I stood there, slowly prying his fingers away.

"Yes."

Being pushed away seemed to confuse him. He looked at his own hands, then back at me.

"Why won't you hug me back?"

Because we're divorced, Julian. Because you stopped hugging me two years before I stopped needing it.

But how do you say that to someone who thinks he's nineteen?

His eyes—god, his eyes. Wide and searching and completely, painfully open. The way they used to be.

"You look different," he murmured. "Older. But even prettier."

I bit the inside of my cheek hard.

"Julian, what's the last thing you remember?"

He scrunched his face in concentration. "Asking you to be my girlfriend. Outside the library. You said yes. Did… did something happen after that?"

Seven years happened. A wedding. A slow decay. A hair tie with a bear charm. A bucket of paint. Signed papers.

"You had an accident," I said carefully. "The doctors say your memory will come back eventually."

"But you're here." He smiled—that full, radiant, unburdened smile I hadn't seen in years. "So we're still together."

I opened my mouth.

The doctor appeared in the doorway, saving me from answering.

"Mrs.—Ms. Ashford, may I speak with you outside?"

In the hallway, the doctor explained: retrograde amnesia from the head trauma. His memories could return in days, weeks, or months. Possibly all at once, possibly in fragments.

"He needs familiar surroundings and people. Stress could delay recovery."

"I'm not the right person," I said. "We're divorced."

The doctor blinked. "He's been asking for you since he woke up. Only you."

Through the window, I could see Julian sitting up in bed, craning his neck toward the door.

Waiting for me. Like he always used to.