REMINISCENT

CHAPTER NINETEEN: So That's Your Story (FINAL EDIT)

Ashley's POV
"Wow... I can't believe you went through all that." Jake's voice was soft, almost reverent, as he pulled me into a hug.

I didn't shed a single tear, though. Not one.

We stayed like that for what felt like minutes, maybe longer, until he slowly let go. I managed a small, sad smile, and he squeezed my shoulders gently.

"It all makes sense now," he said with a dry, almost disbelieving laugh, shaking his head. "Why you don't drive. Why you hesitated to even get in a car. Why you pretend to hate him. Why you barely talk to him. Your moods... everything. It all makes sense. And no one could've ever guessed why."

"Yeah," I whispered, my eyes fixed on my trembling hands.

"I never thought you and Aiden went through all that," he murmured. "No wonder... the only time we met again was during therapy. After he just disappeared off the surface of the earth." He smiled sadly at the memory, and for a second I thought I saw tears threatening to fall—or maybe it was just the light.

I tilted my head at him, curiosity cutting through my confusion. "What do you mean we?"

I reached out and took his hand to bring him back to me.

"You know," he said quietly, still avoiding my eyes as his fingers absently played with mine, "we should just be grateful he's alive. He just... has to remember."

"What? Yeah, but what do you mean we? What are you talking about? Why were you going to therapy?" The questions tumbled out of me all at once, sharp and urgent.

He shook his head, trying to hold back tears, but a single traitorous drop slipped down his cheek. Without thinking, I reached up and wiped it away.

And in that moment, I wished I could erase the pain in his eyes entirely.

"I just... I just wish she was alive," he said, his voice cracking. "Even if she had memory loss like Aiden."

My heart clenched painfully. "J-Jake... did you... lose the love of your life?" I asked, my voice breaking, tears threatening to spill.

"No," he said with a bitter laugh, shaking his head. "I have my own fucked-up life, but it's not because of some girl."

I stayed silent, my hand still holding his, letting him know I was here, that he could keep going.

"When I was eleven," he began, his tone shifting, quieter but somehow heavier, "my mom was diagnosed with cancer. I didn't really understand how bad it was back then—I just knew she was sick. So I spent every second I could with her."

His voice was steady at first, but I felt the tremor beneath it.

"She got worse when I turned thirteen. Stopped going to work. I stopped going on holidays. I... took care of her as best as I could while she was in the hospital. At least... I think I did. My brothers tried to be there too, but..." He trailed off, his eyes unfocused as if lost in those memories.

"Three years went by, and she just kept getting worse. The treatments weren't working like we hoped. There were good days, but there were bad ones too. She started looking... different. My grades tanked. I got depressed. But I really tried to stay happy around her. Because even in her state, she still smiled. Always smiled. She'd tell me to live, to have fun. To not let her illness swallow my life."

He took a shaky breath, still toying with my fingers.

"As the months passed, the pain got worse. She was in constant agony. And I remember praying—begging—for her to just... have peace. Even for a little while."