A Piece of Me (Tracob)

Coming home

"Alright, and with that, Mr. Mellet you are free to go. Until your appointment on Friday." The nurses gives us a friendly smile and reaches out to shake my hand. "We're all rooting for your recovery."

Troye manages a smile in return. "Thank you."

It's been three days since Troye woke up, and today we go home. The Mellets flew back to Perth yesterday after confirmation that he is entirely stable and at no risk of collapse, and being informed that their presence here would only continue to disrupt his daily life. I wonder what hurts more, being told you shouldn't spend much time with your amnesiac child, or being told that you have to take care of your amnesiac boyfriend even though he doesn't remember you.

I take Troye's wheelchair and steer it towards the automatic doors. The chair is temporary, he's only supposed to use it when he feels like he needs it, and preferably not at home, because prolonged use increases dependency. He's supposed to walk outside fifteen minutes a day with assistance until he can do it on his own. It's an uphill recovery battle for the next several months. Yesterday I logged onto his social media to explain the situation. I didn't touch upon his memory issue I just said that he'd been in a serious accident and although he wasn't in any fatal state currently, he needed time away to recover and for that reason he would be going off radar for some time. I deactivated my own accounts too for good measure. It's just the two of us now.

As I wheel him over to our car, I feel a strange sense of anxiety constricting my chest until I realize why it's there. Last time Troye was in a car he almost died. And here I am, putting him in another car and holding myself responsible as the driver to make sure he arrives safely. Oh no, Jacob. Do not start thinking like that, I warn myself firmly. Look to the future, don't cling to the past. That's what the doctor told us. Look forwards, help him with his old memories but try to make new ones as well. Maintain the relationship. How I'm supposed to do that, I'm not sure.

He's still Troye, I have to remind myself over and over. He's still Troye, that person I know and love, he's just not the version of Troye that I fell in love with, but how different could he be?

"Do you - uhm, do you need help getting in the car?"

Troye nods and lifts himself weakly with his good arm. I grip his elbow gently and guide him into his seat, helping him buckle up and adjusting the strap so it's not digging into the sling on his broken arm. I fold up the wheelchair and fit it in the back before sliding into the driver's seat and glancing back at him. He's pale and sweaty and looks exhausted. My heart sinks. That effort, that tiny, barely task of getting into the car has completely drained him.

It's horribly depressing to see, actually. Just 12 days ago my boyfriend played a ninety minute show that left him looking wiped out but excited and rejuvenated. He loves dancing around, being on the move. He's such an active person - and not in the sense that he goes for scheduled runs every day or something, he's just never still. He's always running around working on something, creating something, planning something, brainstorming and talking and singing through every song on his album while doing jumping jacks as breath training for shows. No that was not just an example he's actually done that. That was Troye, that was his energy and his spirit and his life.

And now he can't even get into a fucking car without losing his breath and breaking a sweat. And there's not a thing, not one thing I can do about it.
---

"So, this is our house." I wiggle the key out of the lock and swing the front door open. Troye leans forwards in his wheelchair, tilting his head back and gazing open-mouthed at the interior.

"I live here? I pay for this? Christ, what am I, Beyonce?"

"Well, we both pay for it. We rent together. But yeah, you live here." I feel a weird sense of pride at his obvious astonishment. I love our house, it's perfect. We made it perfect. The books and the art pieces and photos, it's our minds in physical form.