Forget Me Not

Chapter 2

Emma didn't realise exactly how many of Dylan's things she had until that afternoon, when she tried to put together a pile of mementos for him. They'd never lived together, but the more she looked around, the more she realised that subconsciously, unexpectedly, he'd infiltrated into every part of her life.

He was there in most of her photo albums, or in the polaroids she'd hung up on the wall. His old shirts were folded neatly in a pile on a shelf in her closet, shirts that he'd given to her because she loved sleeping in them. He'd written arbitrary, funny notes in the empty margins of her textbooks, and she couldn't help but smile as she remembered how he'd liked to distract her while she was studying.

But her smile faded when she thought about how Dylan was faring. Slowly, but surely, he was getting better. She'd placed a pot of Forget-Me-Nots back in his room several days ago; and just earlier that morning, she'd visited again while he was asleep, leaving behind a yellow post-it note taped to his bedside table that ran:

I hope you're feeling better.

There's a rerun of your favorite sitcom on TV tonight, so don't forget to watch it.

Much love,

Emma.

She'd even signed her name in that familiar scrawl he was so familiar with. But he'd not called or given any indication that he remembered her. It was going to take a lot more than just a pot of flowers and a note to trigger his memory. Granted, it wasn't going to be easy but Emma knew that these things needed time.

"What's this?" Scout's sudden question pulled her right back on track, and she looked over at her friend.

"Postcards." Emma crossed the room and settled down on the empty space next to her. Reaching for the box in Scout's hands, she tugged the cover off, picking up one of the glossy cards inside. "He sent these back when he was studying in England."

Scout's lips lifted in a smile of faint amusement. "No emails or video calls?"

"Oh, we did video-call each other almost every night, but he insisted on sending these too. He's old-fashioned that way." Emma felt a faint rush of nostalgia as she studied the picture of the London Eye, along with Dylan's messy penmanship on the flipside of the postcard. Stifling a sigh, she placed the card back into the box and pulled the cover back over it. She didn't miss the look of sympathy on Scout's face as she did.

"You guys made long-distance work," said Scout, at last. Her voice was tentative, her tone measured, and she chose her words carefully. "That's not something a lot of couples can do."

"I know. Back then, I thought that it would be the most difficult thing we had to go through – to be apart for so long. But now... "

Now, we are no longer apart. Because there is no 'we', there is just him and me, and he does not remember me.

Emma didn't say the words aloud, but she didn't need to. She knew that Scout heard them loud and clear in the silence.

* * *

Dylan's sister Morgan was more than sceptical when she heard about what Emma had done in an attempt to trigger his memories.

"Don't get me wrong," she'd said, when Emma had first told her, "I think it's sweet of you. But really, I'd rather you be in the same room as him all day, every day. That way, you're never out of his sight."

But that was out of the question. Emma knew all too well that her presence would just aggravate Dylan further, and he'd been nothing but hostile those times she'd tried to visit when he was awake.

"Then hit him on the head because he's acting like an idiot. The doctor removed the bandages on his head just yesterday. I'll even hit him for you and everything," Morgan had offered cheerfully, her eyes brightening at the mere prospect of that.

Emma had laughed and said no – she'd just visit when Dylan was asleep.

So after Morgan had agreed to keep her updated on Dylan's current situation, Emma dropped by the hospital the following afternoon. True to Morgan's earlier text, he was asleep, and Emma stepped into the room silently, careful not to let the door slam shut behind her.

He looked better today – the bruises on his skin had faded some and the bandage had been removed from his head. But his leg and wrist were still wrapped in their respective casts, and Emma bit her lip at the sight of that. Vaguely, she noticed that most of the get-well-soon gifts that other people sent to him had remained untouched, except for the basket of muffins that were almost half gone by now.

She smiled. Dylan always had a sweet tooth.

Reaching into her bag, she fished out a navy blue varsity jacket. It was his – or, at least, it had been back when he played for the football team in college. Then on one of their dates, he'd noticed that she was cold and had carefully placed his jacket over her, telling her to keep it when she offered to return it.

Emma remembered all this perfectly, and her fingers tightened around the fabric of the jacket for a brief moment, ready to set it down on the bedside table in hopes that this was an important enough memento for him.

But the sudden click of the door made her whirl around, clutching the jacket to her chest as she stared at the woman standing by the doorway. She looked familiar and unfamiliar all at once, and Emma couldn't for the life of her recall where she'd seen her before.

The woman looked at her in confusion, before looking over at Dylan and then back to her again. "What're you doing here?"