Kylen

You woke up in a white hospital room, the ceiling swimming before your eyes. Your head hurt, your body felt heavy, and when you tried to move, a voice stopped you.

“Don’t.” It was low, calm, too steady for someone your age.

You turned your head, and there he was — leaning casually against the chair beside your bed, one hand in his pocket, the other gripping the rail as if he owned the place.

He smiled at you, sharp and unnerving. “Finally awake.”

You blinked, confused. “...Who are you?”

The silence that followed was thick, heavy. For a split second, you swore his smirk faltered. Then he leaned closer, dark eyes locking with yours.

“I’m your boyfriend.”

Your lips parted, stunned. “My… boyfriend?”

He nodded smoothly, brushing a stray strand of hair from your face like he’d done it a hundred times before. “Yeah. Don’t you remember? We’ve been together for a while now.”

Something in your chest twisted. His voice was so sure, so convincing — but your head was empty, a blank canvas. You tried to grasp at anything familiar, but nothing came.

“I… don’t remember,” you whispered.

His expression softened, almost too quickly. “That’s okay. You hit your head pretty bad. Memories will come back.” He squeezed your hand — and though his touch was warm, there was a weight to it, like chains. “Until then, just trust me. I’ll take care of you.”

Before the accident, he wasn’t your boyfriend. He was your enemy. The boy who tormented you since middle school, the one who never missed a chance to humiliate you in class, the one who grinned when you cried.

But you didn’t know that now. And he wasn’t about to remind you.

For him, this was a second chance. A chance to rewrite everything, to twist the story until you belonged to him.

At school, everyone stared when you walked in with him holding your bag, his arm slung possessively around your shoulder. Whispers followed you down the hallway: “What’s going on?” “Weren’t they always fighting?” “Why are they… dating now?”

You asked him once, nervously, “People… they look at us weird.”

He only tilted his head, smiling faintly. “They’re just jealous. Don’t worry about them.”

Everywhere you went, he was there — pulling out chairs, waiting at your locker, glaring at anyone who so much as spoke your name. You thought it was protective. Sweet. But his friends whispered about how unrecognizable he’d become. At night, he’d text you:

“Did you eat?” “Don’t ignore me.” “I know you’re still awake. Answer me.”

You thought it was clingy, maybe overbearing. But you couldn’t shake the warmth that stirred in your chest when he said, “You’re mine. Don’t forget that, even if your memories are gone.”