Oneshots

The Love That Time Forget (Hessa) - part 1

Tessa

When I wake up, the first thing I notice is the beeping. Slow, steady, relentless. My head is pounding, and my body feels heavy, like I’ve been asleep for days.

I blink against the harsh hospital lights, trying to make sense of where I am, why I’m here.

A nurse appears beside me. "You're awake. That’s a good sign."

"Where… am I?" My voice is hoarse, my throat dry.

"St. Mary’s Hospital." she says gently. "You were in a car accident."

My mind scrambles for something—anything—but all I find is an empty void.

The nurse glances at the doorway. "He's been waiting for you."

I follow her gaze, and then I see him.

A man stands in the doorway, his hands balled into fists at his sides. His dark hair is a mess, and he looks like he hasn’t slept in days. His sharp jaw is tight, but his eyes—deep, stormy, and filled with something I don’t understand—are locked on me.

He swallows hard. "Hi, Tess."

The nickname feels… foreign. It rolls off his tongue like he’s said it a million times before, but to me, it means nothing.

I hesitate. "Who… are you?"

The way his face falls shatters something inside me, though I don’t know why.

"I'm Hardin." he says, his voice rough. "Your fiancé."

My heart stumbles. "Fiancé?"

I look down at my left hand, and sure enough, there’s a ring on my finger—a delicate band with a diamond that catches the fluorescent light. It’s beautiful. Perfect. But it doesn’t feel like mine.

I shake my head, panic creeping in. "I'm sorry. I… I don’t remember you."

His jaw tightens for a second before he exhales and nods. "It’s okay."

But it’s not. I can see it in his eyes.

*

Hardin doesn’t push. He doesn’t beg me to remember.

Instead, over the next few days, he tells me our story in pieces. He tells me how we met in a bookstore when I accidentally bought the last copy of a novel he had been searching for. He says I called it fate, but he had pretended to be annoyed. That I handed him the book anyway and told him he owed me a coffee in return.

He tells me I used to leave notes in his pockets—little reminders, jokes, sometimes just a heart. He still carries one in his wallet.

"You said you liked knowing I’d find them when I least expected it." he says, his fingers brushing the folded piece of paper before slipping it back inside.

I stare at him, at the way his hands shake slightly when he talks about me. About us.

I want to remember. I do. But there’s nothing.

Still, he stays.

He takes me to the café where we used to go every Sunday. He orders my usual—hot chocolate with extra whipped cream—and watches me carefully, waiting for something to click.

Nothing does.

He takes me to the beach where we used to sit for hours, where, according to him, I once made him dance with me in the rain, laughing as he cursed about being soaked.

I try to picture it. Try to picture us.

But all I see is a stranger.

I start to wonder if I’ll ever love him again. If it’s even possible.