Her fingers trembled as they reached for the paper in his hand.
The rain had soaked through the edges,but the ink—their names—remained sharp.
Her lips parted, but no words came.Just breath.Just disbelief.Just pain.
She looked up at him, eyes wide, voice barely a whisper.
"This… this isn't real."
She wanted to tear it in half.To call it a forgery.To accuse him of another cruel manipulation.
But deep inside—somewhere beneath the heartbreak and betrayal—a quiet voice said:
You know it's real.
The date.The signatures.The dress in that vague dream she kept having—it was all connected.
He wasn't lying.
She had been his.Once.Fully.And she had forgotten everything.
The memory hit her like thunder in a church—sacred, terrifying, and impossible to ignore.
A flash—her laughing, barefoot on a wooden floor.Him behind her, wrapping his arms around her waist.A kiss.A ring.A promise whispered in the dark:
"If the world turns on us, we'll just run faster."
Back in the present, she clutched the certificate to her chest, as if afraid the truth would disappear again.
"Why didn't you tell me sooner?"Her voice cracked.He took a step closer, eyes pleading.
"Because every time I tried... you looked at me like I was the villain. And maybe I was. But I couldn't let you hate me and remember."
She staggered back.The truth weighing more than the lie ever did.
"So what now?" she asked, voice hollow."We just... pretend nothing happened? We move in together and play husband and wife until it feels real again?"
He stared at her, jaw tight.And then—he said it.
"We don't have to pretend, Amelia.""You're still my wife. Whether you love me or not."
She froze.Because somewhere deep in her chest—
something fluttered.