Minji's POV:
The world spun, a dizzying carousel of white hospital lights and anxious whispers.
My head throbbed in rhythm with the beeping machine beside me.
My name, Minji, echoed around me, strange and unfamiliar.
Panic tightened its icy grip around my chest, squeezing the air out of my lungs. I was adrift in a sea of confusion, clinging to the wreckage of memories I couldn’t quite grasp.
Then, he appeared.
He was tall, his features blurred around the edges, like a faded photograph. He had kind eyes, the color of warm honey, and a smile that promised comfort.
He held my hand, his touch a grounding force in the maelstrom of my fear.
"Don’t worry, Minji," he said, his voice a soothing balm. "You’re safe now. Take your time."
His words were a lifeline. I clung to them, desperate for the solace they offered.
But the question choked out of me, ragged and raw, "Who... who am I?"
He seemed to understand. He didn't pry, didn't bombard me with questions. Instead, he began to speak, his voice weaving tales like a master storyteller.
He spoke of star-crossed lovers, of grand gestures and quiet moments of intimacy.
He spoke of love lost and found, of second chances and the enduring power of the human heart.
Days bled into weeks. The doctors spoke in hushed tones of retrograde amnesia, of memories that might never return.
My world was the sterile confines of the hospital room, my only solace the stories he told.
"There was once a girl," he began one day, his voice a soft murmur in the quiet room. "She loved to dance, her movements as graceful as a willow in the wind." A small smile touched his lips. "She fell in love with a boy who played the piano, his melodies as captivating as her dance."
He would pause, his gaze distant, lost in the story he wove. "They met at a friend's party. She was drawn to his quiet intensity, the way his fingers danced across the keys, pouring his soul into every note."
His stories were like pieces of a forgotten dream, tinged with a bittersweet longing I couldn’t place.
Each tale sparked a flicker of recognition, a distant echo in the empty chambers of my mind.
I found myself yearning for the next installment, for the comfort his words brought.
"Did they... did they have a happy ending?" I asked one day, my voice barely a whisper.
He looked at me then, his gaze intense, searching. "That," he said, "is for the story to tell."
***
Y/N's POV:
Watching Minji, my Minji, lying in that hospital bed, so lost and confused, shattered something inside me.
The accident had robbed her of our memories, our life together.
Guilt gnawed at me. It should have been me, not her.
Seeing her struggle to remember, to recognize even her own reflection in the mirror, was torture.
I felt helpless.
The doctors offered little comfort, their words laced with uncertainty.
But I couldn't give up. I wouldn't.
I decided to tell her stories, our stories, disguised as fiction. Maybe, just maybe, something would spark, a flicker of recognition in her eyes.
And so, I began, weaving tales of our first meeting, our awkward first date, the way her laughter could light up even the darkest room.
