Woso imagines

Leah < amneisa

The pounding in your head was relentless, a dull throb that didn't stop even as you tried to blink the heaviness from your eyes. The room around you was stark white, sterile and unwelcoming, and the air smelled faintly of disinfectant. Machines beeped softly in the background, and you could feel the weight of the bandages wrapped tightly around your skull.

You tried to move, but every muscle in your body protested. You groaned, the sound foreign and hoarse in your ears, and that was when the door creaked open. A blonde woman stepped inside, her features lit with a combination of relief and nervousness. Her eyes, a shade of blue so vibrant it seemed to pierce through the haze of your mind, locked onto yours. She froze for a moment, holding a cup of tea in her hands, before rushing to your bedside.

"You're awake," she whispered, her voice trembling slightly as she set the cup down on the small tray beside you. She leaned closer, her hand hovering uncertainly near yours before she let it drop.

You frowned, the words not quite registering. Your mouth was dry, your voice scratchy when you finally spoke. "Where am I?"

Her face fell, and for a moment, she looked utterly lost. Then she straightened, determination taking over the hesitation. "You're in the hospital. You had an accident during training—your head..." Her voice cracked, and she cleared her throat. "It was bad."

You blinked at her, confusion swirling in your mind. The pain in your head was intense, but the emptiness was worse—a hollow, gaping hole where memories should have been.

"I don't—" you faltered, your heart racing. "I don't remember anything."

Her face crumpled, the devastation in her eyes impossible to miss. She looked away, blinking rapidly as if trying to hold herself together. "Not anything?"

You shook your head slowly, panic rising in your chest. "Not anything. Not... who are you?"

She sucked in a sharp breath, her hand gripping the edge of the bed so tightly her knuckles turned white. For a moment, she didn't answer, and you thought she might just turn and leave. Instead, she swallowed hard and forced out the words. "I'm Leah. Leah Williamson. I'm... I'm your girlfriend."

The air in the room felt heavier, suffocating. Girlfriend? The word meant nothing to you, but the anguish in her expression made guilt twist in your stomach. You stared at her, trying to find even a flicker of recognition in her face, but there was nothing.

"I don't remember," you murmured again, your voice barely audible.

Leah's shoulders trembled as she looked at you, her composure cracking. "It's okay," she whispered, more to herself than to you. "We'll fix this. We'll figure it out. I'll help you remember."

Her voice was steady, but her eyes were red-rimmed, and the way she bit her lip told you she was barely holding herself together.

The days blurred together after that, one long string of tests, doctors' visits, and unfamiliar faces. Leah was always there, a constant presence in the chaos, but every interaction was laced with an undercurrent of pain. She tried so hard to smile, to laugh, to act as though everything was normal, but you could see the cracks in her armor.

She brought you home after a week, guiding you into an apartment that was supposed to be familiar but felt like a stranger's. The walls were covered in photos—of her, of you, of the two of you together. Smiling, laughing, holding hands.

In one picture, you were on her back, your arms wrapped around her shoulders as she grinned up at the camera. "That was in pre-season," Leah said softly from behind you. You turned to see her watching you with a faint smile, though her eyes were damp. "You dared me to carry you the whole way back to the changing rooms after training."

You stared at the photo, willing it to spark something—anything. But all you felt was the ache in your chest from knowing how much she wanted you to remember and how much you couldn't.

The days turned into weeks, and Leah's optimism never wavered, even as the weight of your amnesia bore down on both of you. She spent hours telling you stories about your life together, showing you videos and photos in the hope that something would trigger your memory.

"We met at Arsenal," she said one night, sitting cross-legged on the couch beside you. "You transferred last year. I remember thinking you were so cocky, but then you made fun of my accent, and I knew I had to keep you around just to get back at you."

You smiled faintly, more at her tone than the story itself. "Your accent?"

She rolled her eyes, though there was a flicker of something behind her playful demeanor. "I'm from Milton Keynes. You never let me forget it."

You wanted to laugh, wanted to ease the tension in her shoulders, but the emptiness in your mind was overwhelming. "I wish I could remember," you admitted quietly, staring at your hands.

Leah reached out, her fingers brushing yours. "You will," she said, her voice firm despite the quiver in it. "And even if you don't, we'll make new memories. I'm not going anywhere."

But the strain of it all began to show. Leah was patient and kind, but there were moments when the cracks in her facade became impossible to ignore. One night, after a particularly bad day, she broke down completely.

"I just want you back," she whispered, sitting on the edge of the bed with her head in her hands. Her shoulders shook, and the sound of her quiet sobs tore through you like a knife.

You didn't know what to do, didn't know how to fix the pain you could see consuming her. "Leah..." you started, but your voice faltered.

She looked up at you, her eyes red and swollen. "Do you know how hard it is to look at you every day and know that you don't remember me? That you don't remember us?" Her voice cracked, and she quickly wiped at her cheeks. "I'm trying to be strong, but it's killing me."

Your chest ached, and you reached for her without thinking. Your hand rested on her shoulder, and for a moment, she leaned into your touch, her breathing uneven.

"I'm sorry," you said, your voice thick with guilt. "I don't know how to fix this."

Leah shook her head, forcing a weak smile. "It's not your fault. I know that. But I just... I miss you so much."

You didn't know what to say. The guilt and frustration were suffocating, but the sight of Leah breaking down in front of you was unbearable.

That night, as she lay beside you, her back turned and her breathing unsteady, you promised yourself you'd do everything you could to make this easier for her, even if it meant pretending you felt more than you did.

But pretending wasn't necessary for long. The more time you spent with Leah, the more you began to see what she meant to you—what she still meant to you. It wasn't in the stories she told or the photos she showed you. It was in the little things: the way she always knew how to make you laugh when the frustration of not remembering became too much, the way her fingers brushed yours when she thought you weren't paying attention, the way she whispered "I love you" under her breath every night, even when she thought you were asleep.

One evening, as you lay on the couch with Leah beside you, her hand resting on your thigh, you found yourself staring at her. The soft curve of her lips, the way her lashes fanned against her cheeks, the faint freckles scattered across her nose.

"I don't remember us," you said quietly, your voice breaking the comfortable silence.

Leah's eyes flickered to yours, cautious but hopeful.

"But I think I'm starting to understand why I loved you," you finished, your heart pounding.

For a moment, Leah didn't move, didn't speak. Then, slowly, her lips curved into a smile—a real one, the kind that made her whole face light up. She reached for your hand, lacing her fingers with yours, and squeezed.

"You have no idea how much that means to me," she whispered, her voice thick with emotion.

And for the first time in what felt like forever, the ache in your chest eased. The memories might not have returned, but the love you felt—the love you were rediscovering—was enough.