Morning came quietly.
Not gently but quietly, the way hospitals always did. The light crept in through the half-open blinds, pale and unsure, landing on the edge of Iris' bed like it wasn't certain it belonged there. She woke with a dull ache behind her eyes and a strange sense that she had been dreaming about something important and lost it the moment she opened them.
For a few seconds, she didn't remember where she was.
Then the beeping reminded her.
Hospital.
Accident.
Forgetting.
She sighed and turned her head slightly. The chair beside her bed was empty now. Noah had left at some point in the night, just like he said he would. For reasons she couldn't explain, she'd half-expected him not to. As if he might have stayed anyway, sleeping upright and uncomfortable, just to be close.
The thought startled her.
You don't know him, she reminded herself.
And yet.
A nurse came in soon after, cheerful again, asking how she slept, shining a light in her eyes, adjusting the drip. Iris answered automatically, her mind elsewhere.
"Your parents will be back later this morning," the nurse said. "And the doctor wants to run a few more checks."
Iris nodded. "Okay."
"Any pain?"
"Mostly my head."
"That's expected."
The nurse hesitated, then added gently, "And emotionally?"
Iris let out a short, humorless breath. "That's harder to explain."
The nurse smiled with understanding. "It usually is."
After she left, Iris stared at the ceiling again. The crack was still there. That helped a little. Familiarity, even accidental, was comforting.
She thought about Noah.
About the way he'd looked at her like she was something fragile and precious at the same time. Like he was afraid to touch her, but even more afraid not to.
She pressed her lips together.
There was a knock on the door.
Her heart jumped before she could stop it.
"Come in," she said.
It was him.
Noah stepped inside quietly, holding a small paper bag in one hand. He looked slightly better than the night before still tired, but cleaner, more put together. Like he'd gone home, showered, tried to look normal.
"You're awake," he said, relief softening his face.
"I am," she replied. "You didn't have to come so early."
"I brought breakfast," he said, lifting the bag a little. "I didn't know what you'd be allowed to eat, so I" He stopped himself. "I can take it away if"
"No," she said quickly. "That's fine. Thank you."
He set the bag down carefully, like it contained something delicate. "How are you feeling?"
She considered the question. "Confused," she said honestly. "And a little embarrassed."
He frowned. "Why?"
"Because you feel… important," she said, choosing her words carefully. "And I don't know why."
He didn't smile at that. He just nodded, like he'd expected it.
The doctor arrived not long after, asking questions, explaining things in calm, measured tones. Selective memory loss. Trauma response. No guarantees. Recovery might come slowly or not at all.
Iris listened, absorbing what she could.
"So I might never remember everything?" she asked.
"That's possible," the doctor said gently. "But memory isn't the only way we understand ourselves. You'll learn who you are again."
Iris glanced at Noah without meaning to.
He was watching the doctor, but his hands were clenched in his lap.
After the doctor left, Iris felt tired in a way sleep wouldn't fix.
"Do you want me to stay?" Noah asked.
She hesitated. She didn't want to rely on someone she didn't remember. She didn't want to build something new on top of something broken.
But she also didn't want him to go.
"Yes," she said quietly. "If that's okay."
"It is," he replied.
They sat in silence for a while. It wasn't uncomfortable but it wasn't easy either. It felt like standing on a bridge that hadn't fully formed yet, unsure which step might send you falling.
"I think you should tell me things," Iris said suddenly.
"What kind of things?"
"Small things," she said. "Nothing heavy. Just… normal."
He smiled faintly. "Like what?"
"Like," she gestured vaguely, "what kind of coffee I like. Or what annoys me."
He thought for a moment. "You hate bitter coffee," he said. "You always add too much sugar and pretend you don't."
She frowned. "That sounds like something I'd do."
"You also tap your fingers when you're nervous," he added. "And you pretend not to care about rain, but you do."
Her chest tightened again. "How do you know all this?"
He met her eyes. "Because I paid attention."
She looked away, overwhelmed by the simplicity of that answer.
Later, when her parents arrived, Iris watched them interact with Noah more closely this time. The familiarity. The ease. The gratitude. It was obvious he wasn't just some random friend.
That night, after everyone left and the room dimmed again, Iris lay awake listening to the rain outside.
She still didn't remember him.
But she knew this much:
Whatever he had been to her before
he wasn't a stranger who could disappear easily.
And that scared her in a quiet, unfamiliar way.