How to Love You

5

September 26

The nurses said you could leave the hospital tomorrow, much to your excitement; I know how much you hate eating the watery mashed potatoes and expired jello here. It wasn't until yesterday, when I peeked momentarily into your hospital room, that I was reminded of your deep phobia of needles. Nurses, who evidently don't sympathize with your situation, poked and prodded you with random blood tests, as your face scrunched up in fear. Luckily for you though, you get to leave this dreadful place tomorrow, which means no more non-empathetic nurses and gross hospital food. 

I was happy that you were happy, of course, but the question remained: where were you going to go?

You've lived with me for three years now, all your belongings were at our house that we shared. Basically your entire life was back at 211 Orchard Lane, so were you coming home with me, the man you didn't even recognize and now obtained a sudden fear of?

Then, I remembered something else the doctor told me. He said you weren't the same person that existed before the crash, he said you're a totally different girl now. Does that mean you don't like being a professional artist anymore? Do you not enjoy painting in the studio that I specially made for you in our house?

I know you're the one who technically lost all the memories, but sometimes I wonder if I'm the one who doesn't recognize you.