Impassive

3| Realisation

"Are you sure you don't want to come with us?" he asked her. She shook her head.

MATTEO

Fuck. 

Ava was asleep again. The rhythmic beeping of the machines around her formed a stark contrast to the stillness of her body. I had been assured it was perfectly normal for her to sleep so often, especially after all the tests she had undergone. Yet, every time I watched her, I felt a knot tighten in my stomach. Dr. Stein insisted that Ava could handle the demands placed on her, but I couldn't shake the feeling that it was too much, too soon.

The results were bleak. The doctors suspected she had total episodic amnesia; she had no memories of her life prior to the accident. Although her semantic memory remained intact—she could still recognize words and concepts—it left her with a blank slate where her identity used to be. The thought of her navigating the world without a sense of who she was filled me with dread and an unsettling sadness. What kind of life awaited her if she couldn't remember who she had been?

In addition to this profound loss, Ava would require intensive speech and physical therapy to rebuild her language and motor skills. Dr. Stein remained optimistic about her rehabilitation, explaining that although Ava struggled to form words and often got distracted during conversations, her vocabulary was still intact. The challenge lay in translating her thoughts into coherent speech—a daunting task that would require immense patience and practice.

As I sat in the sterile room, the fluorescent lights flickering above, the weight of her condition settled heavily on my chest. It felt surreal, almost like watching a movie I wasn't part of. I had never been deeply invested in our marriage; it had always felt more like a practical arrangement that suited us both. Yet, seeing Ava in this state stirred an unsettling mix of obligation and indifference within me.

I had never truly known Ava. Our marriage had been built on convenience, a partnership forged out of necessity rather than love. She had her reasons for marrying me, and I had mine—neither of us had expected a fairytale ending. Watching her sleep, I reflected on how little we had shared. The moments I craved—intimacy, understanding—had always felt just out of reach. Now, with her memories wiped away, I was left with a woman I didn't truly know. There was no deep emotional bond to mourn, yet the situation was undeniably unsettling.

Dr. Stein explained the therapy process with encouragement, but I found it difficult to connect with that optimism. Ava's progress should have mattered to me, yet I felt more like an observer in her life than a partner. The memories she had lost were not mine to grieve, but the emptiness in her eyes pierced through me.

In the following days, I watched as Ava struggled through her sessions. Each small triumph—forming a sentence or attempting to stand—was met with cheers from the therapists, while I felt an unfamiliar distance. I was expected to feel proud and supportive, yet I often daydreamed about my own life, wondering what it would look like without this unexpected burden.

As the days turned into weeks, I caught glimpses of Ava's determination. She fought through her sessions, never once complaining, her brow furrowed in concentration as she navigated the challenging exercises. Sometimes, when she stirred awake, I felt a fleeting sense of hope, but it quickly faded as I realized her gaze was empty, devoid of recognition. In those rare moments when she reached for a memory, my heart would race, only to plummet as she looked right through me, confusion etched on her face. It was as if we were two ships passing in the night—so close, yet utterly disconnected.

I found myself longing for a connection, for a spark of recognition in her eyes, but all I found was the haunting realization that our shared history was slipping away, leaving us both adrift in uncharted waters. As our marriage had always been about practicality, I began to question what our future might hold in the wake of her amnesia. Sometimes, when I held her hand, I whispered softly, "We'll get through this." But deep down, I knew those were just empty words, a hollow promise that felt insincere even to me.