Oneshots

The Love That Time Forget (Hessa) - Part 2

Tessa

Hardin buys me coffee.

We sit in a quiet corner of the bookstore café, the scent of roasted beans and old paper wrapping around us. The silence is comfortable, but I know he’s waiting—watching me for any sign that something has come back.

Nothing has.

But for the first time, that emptiness doesn’t feel as terrifying.

"So..." I say, stirring the foam in my cup, "if we’re starting over, tell me something about yourself."

A slow, almost amused smile tugs at his lips. "What do you want to know?"

I think for a moment. "What do you do for a living?"

He hesitates, then shrugs. "I write."

I blink. "Like… books?"

"Yeah." He runs a hand through his messy hair, looking embarrassed. "Mostly fiction. Some articles."

I narrow my eyes. "Are you famous?"

He chuckles, shaking his head. "Not exactly."

I sip my coffee, watching him. He doesn’t seem like someone who likes talking about himself, but now I’m curious. "What do you write about?"

His gaze flickers to me, then away. "Love."

A strange warmth spreads through my chest. "Oh."

He smirks. "Surprised?"

"A little," I admit. "You don’t seem like the overly romantic type."

His expression softens. "I wasn’t. Until you."

Something about the way he says it makes my breath hitch. He’s so sure—so steady, even when I’m anything but.

I tap my fingers against my mug. "Tell me about us. Not the memories I lost, but… us. What kind of couple were we?"

He exhales, leaning back in his chair. "We argued. A lot."

I laugh. "That bad?"

He grins. "You were stubborn. I was worse. But somehow, it worked."

I tilt my head. "What else?"

"You loved thunderstorms." he says without hesitation. "You used to drag me outside when it rained, just to dance in it."

The image flashes in my mind—bare feet on wet pavement, raindrops kissing my skin, laughter echoing through the night. It’s not a memory, but it feels like one.

I press my lips together. "Did I make you dance?"

"Every time." His smile is soft, almost wistful. "I hated it at first. But then I didn’t."

I look down at my coffee, my heart aching for something I can’t quite grasp. "You make it sound like we were happy."

His fingers tighten around his cup. "We were."

I meet his gaze. "And now?"

His jaw flexes. "Now, I’m waiting to see if we can be again."

*

Days pass. Then weeks.

Hardin doesn’t push me to remember. He just shows up.

He takes me to places we used to love, but instead of trying to trigger old memories, he lets me experience them as if they’re new.

We go to the farmer’s market, where I apparently used to drag him every Saturday morning for fresh flowers and homemade jam. I don’t remember, but when he hands me a bouquet of sunflowers, something about it feels right.