The house greets us with deafening silence. It isn't peaceful — more like a pressure, as if the walls are frozen in anticipation. Everything remains exactly the same as it was that Tuesday morning — eerily unchanged.
And I remember that morning in the smallest details, as if it has been burned into my memory with a searing brand. His slightly hoarse voice, whispering my name, the tender kisses, the light, prickling stubble on his cheek that makes it tickle both on my skin and in my heart… And then — the morning shower, full of love, touches, and wildly thrilling passion. I feel alive, loved, real. It is the happiest morning of my life.
And — the scariest evening.
One day. One twist of fate. One careless moment — and everything crumbles, like a house of cards built with hope but no safety net. What a wild, painful contrast. It is as if life itself, with mocking precision, drags a black brush across the brightest part of my canvas, leaving no chance to fix the stroke.
The doctor says that amnesia can return. But when — no one knows. Maybe in a week. Maybe in a year. Or maybe never.
Max just shrugs — as if it doesn't matter. There is no anxiety in his gaze, as though he has simply forgotten where he has put his car keys, not fragments of his own life. His calmness is frightening. It isn't coldness — more like indifference, the indifference of a person watching fragments of an old film, not recognizing the actors.
But for me, it is important. Not just important — it is a matter of life and death, to the trembling of my fingers, to the lump in my throat, to those unbearable evenings when you sit in silence, desperately trying not to remember how it all was… because comparison kills.
I silently wish that he would at least remember everything… up until Tuesday afternoon. If he could forget the rest of the nightmare, I would agree to that easily. Let him keep only the morning in his memory. Only the light. Only the way the sun filters through the blinds, how he reaches for me, yawning, and quietly, almost in a whisper, says: "You're mine, and I'm yours, forever."
Those words sound like a spell. They are an anchor. They are home.
He becomes a little different. Not a stranger — no. But more… closed off. As if a barrier has once again risen between us, one we have so painfully destroyed before. Not a wall, no — more like a dense mist, through which only vague silhouettes of feelings can be seen. He no longer laughs like he used to — widely, freely, with that husky voice I love. Now his smile is polite. A shadow of the real one.
I quickly return to how we used to be together — how we feel, how we speak. I remember all his little habits, how he scrunches his nose when something displeases him, how he looks away before saying something important. I catch myself adjusting, as though solving a puzzle again, whereas before I knew the answer with my eyes closed.
And he… he seems to sense the distance. Not on purpose. He just doesn't remember. He doesn't remember how he used to hold my hand in the pocket of his coat on cold evenings. He doesn't remember how we would argue over silly things, and then make up in the kitchen, drinking coffee and making plans that seemed endless. He doesn't remember how one day he said he feared only one thing — losing us.
And it hurts. God, how it hurts. Because I know that inside, he's still the same. That there's still that spark in him, that world we built together — he just doesn't know where to find the key. I see it in his eyes, in the random gestures, in how sometimes he says phrases that used to be only ours. And every time my heart stops — what if this is a sign? What if he remembers?…
But no. He simply doesn't remember.
Sometimes I hear him whispering in his sleep at night. Sometimes my name. Sometimes indecipherable words, as if his soul still remembers, even if his mind doesn't. And then I lie there, in the dark, listening to it, crying so quietly so I won't wake him. Because I'm still here. Still loving. Still believing.
I'm ready to wait. As long as it takes. Years, if necessary. Because deep down, I believe — the real thing doesn't erase itself without a trace. It might get lost, quiet down, be covered in dust, but it doesn't disappear. It waits. Just like I do.
I will be here. I will tell him again everything we've already lived through. I will tell our story like a fairytale. At first, with warmth, with detail, with love in my voice. With each word — like drops of rain, washing the windows of memory. And maybe one day he will say to me again: "You're mine, and I'm yours, forever."
And then I'll know — he's back.
"Nothing has changed here," Max comments softly, looking around the room as though trying to find a hint of a forgotten piece of himself.
"Yeah, except for the dust," I smile, though inside a very different phrase rises in my throat: new memories have appeared that you still don't remember…
He walks a bit ahead, uncertain, as if afraid to disturb the peace of the space.
"Are you okay if I take a shower?"
"No, of course not. As if I have ever been against it," I reply softly, hiding the anxiety and slight hope behind my words.
"I'll be quick," he calls over his shoulder and disappears in the direction of the bedroom.
I watch him leave, and inside me, it feels as if someone suddenly strikes my chest — so hard that everything trembles. A memory flares up. Sharp, hot, burning. It doesn't come quietly — it bursts in, like a storm, like a scream, like a whisper in my ear in complete silence.
That very day. Our morning. Sunbeams breaking through the curtains lay on his face with soft light, casting shadows of his eyelashes on his cheeks. He is lying next to me, lazily smiling, breathing so calmly as if the whole world is in order in that moment because we are together. Everything feels so real, so warm, as if everything that has existed before that morning was a preparation for this moment.
And now, remembering this, I suddenly feel all the longing that has built up over these days rising from the depths of my soul. It seems to tear its way out, burning through my skin, making my fingers tremble, my lips press into a thin, painful line. I desperately want to go back there. Not just for the body, not out of a desire for physical comfort — no. For us. For what we have between us, alive, real, invisible. For that gaze. For that touch. For that silence, in which everything is spoken without words.
Maybe… maybe if I go to him — if he sees me, the real me, not the one reflected by his distorted memory — maybe something will stir in him? Maybe, at least for a second, for a split second, he'll recognize me? Feel me?
My heart is pounding madly, as if it wants to jump out, run ahead of me, and scream: "Stop! Don't do this!"
But I've already taken a step. Then another. I make up my mind. I open the bathroom door. The air is thick, almost still. His scent lingers in it — familiar, intimate, tearing me apart. The sound of water comes from the shower. He is there. So close. And I… I suddenly feel like an intruder. A disturbance of peace. But it is too late to stop.
I slowly take off my clothes, almost reverently, as though peeling off my past, leaving all my waiting, fear, and weakness in the folds of the fabric. Goosebumps run down my skin — not from the cold, no. From anxiety. From premonition.
Every movement is difficult, as if the air has turned viscous. I approach the shower stall like an altar to the past, like the boundary between what was and what might never return.
I open the door. Steam rushes toward me — hot, enveloping, like a memory. Like his hands used to caress me…
Max stands with his back to me. His shoulders are tense, but he hasn't noticed me yet. Water flows down his body, over scars, bruises, and scrapes left by the pain I couldn't stop. I didn't have time. I didn't save him.
"How badly they must've hurt you…" I think to myself, and my heart tightens as if icy fingers have wrapped around it.
He turns. Our eyes meet. And in that instant, everything freezes. The world stops. His eyes… there is no recognition in them. No light. Only fear. A dull, primal terror. He recoils, pressing himself into the wall, as though I have come to hurt him. He grabs a bottle of shampoo, clutching it between his legs as if it can save him. As if I am a monster. As if I am the enemy.
And everything… everything collapses. All that I have carried inside me up until that moment — hope, tenderness, the desire to embrace, to hold him, to intertwine my fingers with his — vanishes. It dissolves in his panic.
I recoil. My eyes burn with tears, but I don't let them fall yet. As if on trembling legs, I step out of the shower, nearly stumbling, feeling for my robe with my hands, covering myself not just from his gaze but from the pain. Pain howls inside me. It doesn't just scream — it sobs, howls, surges from my throat in a quiet sob.
I want to disappear. To dissolve in the air, in the steam, in the sound of water, so I never, never again feel this emptiness.
He doesn't remember. He's afraid of me. He's not the Max I know, the one I love, the one I remember to the last movement, to every breath.
I sit on the floor, drawing my knees to my chest. Wet hair clings to my cheeks, tears mix with water droplets, and I can't tell anymore what is pain and what is just moisture. I want to scream. At myself. At fate. At this foolish, absurd hope that the past can be revived with a single glance, a single touch, a single shadow from a memory.
Now he looks at me like I'm a threat. I don't know if I can bring him back. I don't know if I have the strength. I don't even know if it's worth it…
But inside me, something still flickers. Small, weak… but alive. Memory — it doesn't die. It just hides. Maybe, someday… he'll remember.
Only a few minutes pass, but they feel like an eternity. I sit, holding my breath, in some half-sleep, as if between reality and a dream, with pulsing pain in my chest, wet cheeks, and empty hands. The silence in the room feels hollow, ringing. It pulses in my temples and chest, as though the echo of my shame hides in it.
And suddenly — a sharp sound. A snap. A crash.
The door flies open so quickly that I don't even have time to be scared — I only jump, barely keeping my robe from slipping off, gripped tightly by trembling fingers.
He stands in the doorway. Max.
Already in a robe, loosely tied at the waist. His hair is wet, not dried — water runs down his cheeks, down his chin, leaving behind thin, transparent streams like traces of tears, though I know — he hasn't cried. Not him. He wouldn't allow himself such weakness.
And yet, in his eyes — in the chaos of his gaze, full of anxiety, heat, and rage — something trembles, imperceptibly.
He looks… stunned. Out of breath. And — angry.
"Are you out of your mind?!" Max's voice trembles with anger and embarrassment. "First, you take my things from the bathroom, forcing me to leave naked, and now… now you just barge in naked while I'm showering! What do you think this is, Katrin?!"
Each of his words strikes my heart. Harshly. Sharply. As if he can't control his emotions, and that makes it hurt even more. I stand there, trying to hold myself together, but I can't. The tears come suddenly, without warning, bursting out in sobs, flooding me as if everything I have been holding inside these days has finally broken through.
He falls silent, stunned. Seeing my tears, he gently sits beside me and cautiously wraps his arms around me. His touch is unsure, but sincere. He strokes my back as if trying to erase everything he has said and return me to peace.
"Don't…," he whispers, bewildered. "I just… I don't understand your actions at all."
Suddenly, I grab his hand sharply — not out of anger, not out of reproach, but from pure, heartbreaking pain. My fingers dig into his wrist, as though through touch, I can convey everything screaming inside me. I can't stay silent anymore. I can't stand in this confused, cold silence. A storm of emotions rages inside me: resentment, burning like vinegar on an open wound. The desire to prove something, to revive something, to draw from him that very spark. That very look. That very Max I love.
"Let's go," I whisper, more to myself than to him, and pull him with me quickly, almost automatically, almost jerkily, like someone led by an unbearable, urgent need.
We enter the living room, and I stop suddenly, turning to him, pointing at the couch.
"Here. This is where… we played questions. You laughed, teased me, and I teased you."
I look at the couch, at the pillows, still rumpled, still holding the shape of his body.
"This is where you taught me how to dance the lambada…" I close my eyes for a second. "You said it was 'the dance of the passionate kiss,' the dance where the body speaks instead of words. And we…," I hesitate, but continue, "...we had it. Right here. You hold me by the waist. Your lips touch my neck. We are just here. Together."
He stands slightly behind, not moving. Not interrupting. Not taking his eyes off me. But in his eyes — emptiness. Or an attempt to understand. Or a struggle.
I don't give him time. I almost drag him further. Into the bedroom.
My heart beats so loudly that I can hear its thump in my ears, in my fingers, in my throat. I stop at the edge of the bed.
"And here…" My voice betrays me, cracking with breath. "Here, on this bed, that Sunday…"
I swallow.
"We had our first time."
Silence. Loud. Crushing. I look up at him.
He is silent. Standing as if rooted to the floor. He looks at the bed like it is a relic, something important yet distant. Like a person standing in front of a display case with the personal belongings of a deceased friend, whose memories are like a mirage — seemingly there… and yet not. He doesn't look at me — he looks through me. At the reflection. At himself. Like he is trying to find the person he was in the mirror. And can't.
I guide him further. Into the bathroom. Completing the circle. The very moment when everything snaps.
The steam has dissipated. Everything is in its place. The cold tiles. The fogged-up mirror. The towel hanging on the hook.
"And here… on Tuesday morning…" I stop, breathing heavily. "You were washing."
My voice trembles. I speak as though through a lump in my throat.
"I come in. Without knocking. Just like a few minutes ago. You look at me… as though you have never seen anything more beautiful. You are not scared. You hold me. We have sex. Real. Close. Not just physical. Like we both know — time has stopped. Like it is… a farewell gift before you leave for university. But we don't know that the goodbye will be real."
Max stands, fists clenched. He isn't breathing. Or does it so shallowly that his chest barely moves. His eyes roam around the room. At the places that are sacred, alive, warm for me. To him — they are empty. Like a museum he is brought to, being told he painted all the pictures himself. And he looks and doesn't believe it. Can't believe it.
"I'm sorry," he finally exhales. "I really… I want to remember. I feel like it happens. Somewhere inside. But…"
He presses his palm to his temple, clenches his teeth.
"It's all like a fog. Faces, hands, sounds. And you — you feel more like a dream than reality."
He closes his eyes.
"I look at you, and everything in me says: remember. But my head…"
He softly hits his forehead with his palm.
"My head refuses."
I step toward him. Gently. Placing my palm on his hand.
"Then let it not be the head. Let it be the heart."
He doesn't answer. He just stands there. But now — close. Not as before. Not exactly. But closer than a minute ago. And maybe that is already a step. A tiny one. A painful one. But real.
"I didn't know…" he whispers.
"I thought if I repeated… if I did everything like it was, maybe you'd remember…" My voice trembles. "But you just got scared of me."
Max slowly approaches me, his eyes wet, as though he too is on the edge. And he hugs me. Tightly. Uncertainly, but with pain and care. His palm rests on my back again, as if he is searching for the way back through touch.
"Forgive me…" he whispers.
"It's okay…" I whisper, even though everything inside me screams that it isn't "okay." It is everything.
"What do you mean 'okay'?" Max pulls back for a moment, looking into my eyes. "These memories… they're important. I… I'm sure I would never want to forget them. Just like I don't want to forget a single moment we had before."
Something changes in him. Just a little. But I feel it — as if old Max suddenly peeks through a crack in the door and reminds me of himself. He's coming back. I feel it with my heart. Just… I need to wait a little longer. And not push. Give him the chance to remember, not through words, but through feelings. Through love.