I stared out the hospital window at a perfect winter afternoon.
Clear blue sky.
Sunlight glinting off the snow-dusted rooftops.
Bare trees standing like quiet sentinels along the street below.
I sighed.
I still couldn't believe it.
This was January 10, 2025.
Yesterday had been January 2023.
Two years.
Two entire years had vanished.
Not in a blink.
Not in sleep.
Just… gone.
The doctors had explained it calmly, like they were discussing the weather.
Car accident.
Severe head trauma.
Coma.
Miraculous survival.
Retrograde amnesia-almost two years of memories wiped clean.
My phone had shattered in the crash.
No photos.
No messages.
No digital breadcrumbs to follow.
It had been two weeks since I woke up.
My parents had stayed in my apartment for the first week-hovering, fussing, trying to fill the gaps with stories I couldn't remember. Yesterday they'd hugged me goodbye, eyes red, promising to visit again soon. They had jobs. Lives. They said I was "better now." Stable.
They left me a brand-new phone.
Same number.
Empty contacts.
Empty gallery.
A lot of people had come to see me.
Classmates.
Friends I vaguely remembered.
Some strangers who smiled too wide and said things like "You don't remember me? We hung out all the time last year!"
I smiled back politely.
Nodded.
Felt nothing.
And then there was her.
The girl who visited on the very first day I opened my eyes.
Short black pixie hair.
Heavy black eyeliner.
Glossy black lipstick.
Silver ring through her bottom lip.
Pale skin, dark clothes, quiet presence that filled the room without trying.
She'd stood at the foot of my bed for a long moment, hands clasped tight in front of her, eyes locked on my face like she was memorizing it.
I'd croaked, throat raw from the tube they'd pulled out hours earlier:
"Do I know you?"
She'd shaken her head slowly.
"No," she said, voice soft, almost fragile. "I'm just your classmate."
Then she'd turned and left.
No name.
No second visit.
I'd asked Mia about her later.
Mia had frowned, confused.
"Goth girl? Short hair? Black lipstick?"
She'd shrugged. "I don't know anyone like that. You sure she wasn't visiting someone else?"
I hadn't pushed.
But the image wouldn't leave me.
Knock knock.
The door opened.
Mia stepped in carrying a small paper bag of fruit-apples, oranges, a couple of bananas.
She smiled-bright, familiar, the same smile she'd worn every single day since I woke up.
"How are you doing, bestie?" she asked, voice light.
I managed a half-smile.
"Fine until now. Now I have to tolerate you."
"Shut up!"
She laughed, set the bag on the side table, and pulled the chair closer to my bed. Started peeling an orange with careful fingers.
Mia came twice a day.
Every day.
Morning: coffee and gossip about classes I'd missed.
Afternoon or evening: fruit, stories about the last two years, updates on mutual friends.
She told me how popular I'd become.
How many girls had asked about me.
How the whole campus had held its breath when they heard about the crash.
I listened.
Nodded.
Felt… distant.
Like I was hearing about someone else's life.
I watched her peel the orange, juice glistening on her fingers.
"Mia?"
"Yes?"
"You're boyfriend won't be angry if you visit me like this?"
She snorted.
"Dumbass. I don't have one."
"Figured so."
"Hey!"
I smirked.
"What about me?" I asked. "Do I have one?"
"No!" she said immediately. "You aren't gay."
"Stupid," I muttered. "I meant-do I have a girlfriend?"
Mia paused, knife hovering over the orange.
"No, you moron," she said, softer now. "You're good at rejecting."
"Oh."
She looked at me-searching.
"What?" she asked. "Do you want a girlfriend? I can volunteer."
I laughed once-short, tired.
"No thanks, mom."
"I'll kill you."
She tossed a piece of orange at me. I caught it. Ate it.
We talked for another hour-light things, safe things.
When she stood to leave, bag of fruit half-empty, coat already on, I spoke again.
"Mia."
She turned.
"Yes?"
"Thank you," I said quietly. "For everything."
She rolled her eyes, but her smile was soft.
"Shut up. You're my bestie. Don't forget that."
She left.
The door clicked shut.
I sighed.
The room felt suddenly too quiet.
Too empty.
I stared at the ceiling.
Something was missing.
Someone.
A hollow ache sat behind my ribs-nameless, faceless, but real.
I closed my eyes.
Tried to picture it.
The girl with short black hair.
Black lipstick.
Storm-gray eyes.
Just a classmate, she'd said.
But something deep inside me-something older than the accident-whispered:
No.
She was more.
I just couldn't remember what.