The room is dim. Quiet. The blanket is tangled around your legs.
You open your eyes.
You stare at the ceiling.
And you feel it immediately:
Nothing.
You don’t know the room.
You don’t know the bed.
You don’t know the man asleep beside you.
Your heart starts to race.
You sit up slowly. Your breath sharpens.
The man stirs — soft, half-asleep — and wraps an arm around your waist like it’s instinct.
And you scream.
⸻
INT. BEDROOM – CONTINUOUS
You launch yourself out of bed.
Your chest heaves.
You look around frantically for something — anything — familiar.
He jolts awake at the sound.
“Y/N?” His voice is raspy. Confused. “What’s—”
You back into the dresser.
Grab the closest thing — a ceramic bedside lamp — and hold it like a weapon.
“Don’t come near me!”
He freezes.
Hands up.
“Hey—hey, it’s me. It’s okay. It’s okay.”
“I don’t know you!” you cry, eyes wide, wild. “Where am I? Who are you?”
“It’s Bob,” he says gently. “Your name is Y/N. You’re home. You’re safe.”
“Stop talking!”
He’s crying now, but his voice stays soft.
“You’re not in danger. I promise you. I would never hurt you.”
“I don’t know you!” you scream again, tears flooding down your face. “I don’t know where I am, I don’t know who I am, and I woke up next to a stranger!”
You clutch the lamp tighter. You’re shaking so hard it almost slips.
⸻
INT. BEDROOM – MINUTES LATER
He stays where he is.
Still.
Patient.
“I know you’re scared,” he says, tears in his voice. “But please, just… look at me. Please.”
You blink. Breathing fast. Muscles locked.
But something flickers.
The panic starts to crack.
Your hand lowers slightly.
“I—” You shake your head. “I don’t remember anything.”
He nods.
Very slowly, he steps forward.
“I know,” he says, voice barely above a whisper.
“I don’t even know… my name.”
“Y/N,” he says softly.
You repeat it. Testing it. “Y/N.”
He nods again. “Yeah. That’s you.”
“…And you’re Bob?”
“Yes.”
You stare at him.
Then look down at the lamp in your hand. Like you’re just noticing it.
“…Did I try to hit you?”
He lets out a breath that’s half a sob.
“No,” he says gently. “You tried to protect yourself.”
You blink. The lamp falls from your hands and hits the carpet.
And you break.
⸻
INT. BEDROOM – MOMENTS LATER
You collapse to the floor, sobbing.
“I’m so scared,” you whisper. “What’s happening to me?”
He drops to his knees. Pulls you into his arms. Rocks you back and forth like he’s trying to hold you together.
“You’re safe now,” he says, again and again. “You’re safe. You’re safe. You’re safe.”
⸻
INT. BEDROOM – NIGHT
You’re asleep again.
He’s in the hallway, pacing.
Then he opens the bedroom door slowly and leans against the frame, watching you.
He covers his mouth with his hand.
Because she screamed when she saw him.
Because she looked at him like he was going to hurt her.
Because she forgot everything.
He walks over, sits on the edge of the bed.
Whispers:
“I’ll remind you every day. Even if you never remember again.”
And then, softly —
He cries.
———
INT. HOSPITAL ROOM – LATE AFTERNOON – MARCH 8
The room smells like antiseptic and lemon cleaner.
Bob sits beside her in a plastic chair, holding her hand.
She’s quiet. Tired. Her head leans on his shoulder. She doesn’t seem to understand where they are, but she’s calm — because she’s with him.
Two doctors sit across from them. One young. One older. Both gentle. Both careful.
They’ve run the tests. Done the scans. They already know what they’re about to say.
The older doctor speaks first.
“We’ve reviewed the progression. It’s advanced quickly. Faster than we expected.”
Bob nods. Tightly. “I know.”
“There’s… an option,” the younger one says carefully, “that we’d like to bring up.”
He stiffens.
“It’s not a decision you have to make now,” the older one adds quickly. “Just something to consider.”
Bob’s voice is flat. “What kind of option?”
They glance at each other.
Then:
“A long-term care facility. A memory unit. Somewhere she could receive 24-hour support. Medically equipped, emotionally grounded—”
“No.” The word is sharp. Immediate.
“Bob—”
“I said no.”
They pause. Measure their tone.
“It’s not about giving up on her—”
“But that’s exactly what you’re asking me to do.”
The younger doctor leans forward. “We know this isn’t easy to hear. But for many spouses, full-time caregiving leads to intense mental deterioration. Depression. Burnout. We’re not telling you to stop loving her. We’re telling you it’s okay to ask for help.”
“I didn’t ask for help,” Bob says. His voice shakes. “I asked for guidance.”
The older doctor softens. “We’re sorry. Truly. But you need to take care of yourself, too.”
He stands. “I vowed sickness and health. That wasn’t conditional.”
“Bob—”
He turns toward them, fists clenched at his sides.
“You’re sitting here — in front of my wife — telling me it might be best to leave her somewhere she doesn’t know, surrounded by people she doesn’t recognize, because it’s ‘best for my mental health?’”
The younger one lowers his gaze. “We didn’t mean it disrespectfully.”
“You did,” Bob says. “But I don’t care. She stays with me.”
They don’t stop him when he leaves the room.
And they don’t follow.
Because they know he’s not okay.
But they also know:
You can’t save someone who doesn’t want saving.
⸻
INT. BEDROOM – 2:47AM
She wakes up crying.
Not panicked.
Not confused.
Just broken.
He bolts upright, instantly alert.
You’re curled away from him, shoulders shaking under the blanket.
“Y/N?” he whispers. “What is it? What’s wrong?”
“I can’t live like this anymore,” you sob. “I’m not a person. I’m a ghost.”
He freezes.
The room feels like it’s suffocating.
“No,” he whispers. “Don’t say that.”
You don’t turn around. “I can’t do this. I’m losing myself every day. I wake up and I don’t know you, I don’t know me. And I’m so tired of pretending I’m not scared.”
He crawls over, pulls you into his lap. His hands are shaking. He’s already crying.
“I’m right here,” he says, rocking you like a child. “I’ve got you. You’re not alone.”
“I want it to stop,” you sob. “I just want it to stop.”
He buries his face into your hair.
“Don’t say that,” he chokes. “Don’t you ever say that.”
You whisper, “I didn’t mean to—”
He cups your face.
“I don’t care if you forget me. I don’t care if you forget the house, the sky, your own name. But don’t ever wish yourself away. Because I need you. I still need you.”
You look at him, eyes wide and red.
And for one second,
one full heartbeat—
you know who he is.
“…Bob,” you whisper.
He nods.
“Yes, baby. Yes.”
“I’m sorry,” you cry, voice cracking. “I didn’t mean it.”
He holds you tighter than ever before.
You fall asleep like that.
His shirt soaked through.
His heartbeat loud enough to be an anchor.
———
INT. BATHROOM – MORNING – MARCH 9, 7:31AM
The mirror fogs with steam.
Toothpaste swirls down the sink.
She hums softly — a melody with no name. She doesn’t look troubled. Doesn’t look tired.
Bob stands in the doorway, frozen.
Watching.
Waiting for her to say it.
“I’m sorry about last night.”
“I didn’t mean it.”
“I still want to live.”
But nothing comes.
She grins at him.
“Do we have waffles?”
He tries to smile.
“Yeah. Yeah, I think we do.”
⸻
INT. LIVING ROOM – 10:12AM
She laughs at something on TV.
It’s a cartoon.
She claps at a punchline she doesn’t understand.
Bob sits on the couch beside her.
Not laughing.
Not speaking.
Just watching her like she’s a miracle he almost lost.
⸻
INT. LAUNDRY ROOM – EARLY AFTERNOON
The dryer spins behind him.
A warm pile of clothes sits at his feet.
He folds a shirt. One of hers. Faded pink, soft from age. He pauses as he holds it.
Then—
Drops it.
And sinks to the floor.
His head presses to the side of the machine.
And he cries.
Big, gasping sobs. The kind that shake your whole chest.
Because she said she didn’t want to live.
And now she doesn’t even remember.
Because she almost gave up.
And she was smiling over waffles this morning.
⸻
INT. BEDROOM – EVENING
He tucks her in gently.
She yawns. Looks up at him.
“You’re sad today,” she says softly.
He freezes.
Just for a second.
Then forces a smile. Brushes her hair back from her face.
“I’m okay.”
She looks at him like she’s trying to figure something out.
“Did I forget something important again?”
His throat tightens.
“No, sweetheart,” he lies. “Nothing important.”
She nods, eyes fluttering closed.
“Okay.”
⸻
INT. BEDROOM – AFTERNOON – MARCH 12, 2:08PM
It’s a good day.
Or, at least, it starts that way.
She’s wearing the soft sweater he picked out — pale blue, sleeves a little too long.
He helps her into her shoes, talks to her like nothing’s wrong.
“Think you’re ready for the park?” he asks with a smile.
She grins, nods. “I just have to pee real quick.”
He nods. “Okay, baby. I’ll be right here.”
She heads down the hallway.
⸻
INT. HALLWAY – MOMENTS LATER
She pauses.
There are three doors.
She stares at them, hand twitching toward the closest one.
“Bathroom,” she whispers.
But she doesn’t know which one.
Her bladder aches. Urgent.
She opens one door.
Closet.
She opens another.
The laundry room.
She turns in a slow circle.
Her hands start shaking. Her eyes blur with tears.
“I don’t know where it is,” she whispers. “I don’t know where it is—”
And then—
It happens.
Warmth spreads down her legs.
She gasps.
Looks down.
Her pants are soaked.
⸻
INT. BEDROOM – MINUTES LATER
Bob checks his watch. It’s been almost five minutes.
“Baby?” he calls gently. “Everything okay?”
Silence.
Then—
A muffled sob.
He’s already moving.
⸻
INT. HALLWAY – CONTINUOUS
He finds her in the hallway, collapsed against the wall, knees pulled to her chest, pants wet, cheeks burning.
She doesn’t look at him.
“I couldn’t find it,” she chokes. “I couldn’t find the bathroom.”
His heart shatters.
“Oh, baby,” he whispers.
She won’t meet his eyes.
“I’m disgusting.”
“No. No, you’re not.”
He kneels beside her, cups her face with trembling hands.
“This isn’t your fault. Okay? None of this is your fault.”
She sobs into his chest.
“I didn’t want you to see me like this.”
He presses a kiss to her forehead.
“There is no version of you I don’t want to see.”
⸻
INT. BATHROOM – LATER
The water is warm.
She stands under the stream, trembling.
He’s with her — fully clothed at first, then slowly pulling his soaked shirt over his head.
He steps in behind her.
Wraps his arms around her waist.
“You’re okay now,” he whispers.
She leans into him, forehead against his shoulder.
“I feel like a baby.”
“You’re my baby,” he says, voice thick. “Always will be.”
He lathers shampoo through her hair, fingers gentle.
She closes her eyes.
Letting herself be cared for. Held. Loved.
Even in her lowest moment.
Especially then.
⸻
INT. BEDROOM – EVENING
She lies in clean clothes, tucked into clean sheets.
Bob brushes the damp strands from her forehead.
“I’m sorry,” she whispers, half-asleep.
He kisses her cheek.
“There’s nothing to be sorry for.”
She murmurs, “Do you still love me?”
He doesn’t answer right away.
Just holds her closer.
“I love you more than I ever have.”
———
INT. BEDROOM – 6:53AM
Sunlight spills through the blinds. The room is quiet.
She opens her eyes.
And for the first time in months—
there’s clarity.
She sits up slowly. Looks around. Breathing steady.
She knows where she is.
She knows who she is.
She looks down at Bob, still asleep beside her.
And she smiles.
⸻
INT. KITCHEN – LATER
He’s pouring coffee when she walks in — alert, confident, a little dazed but awake.
“Morning,” she says. “Do we still have that blueberry syrup?”
He freezes.
Slowly turns.
“You remember blueberry syrup?”
She shrugs. “How could I forget? You accidentally bought twelve bottles after that sale at Kroger.”
His eyes fill with tears. He sets the mug down.
And she laughs.
“Oh my God,” she grins. “Are you crying? Bob, it’s okay—”
He crosses the kitchen in three long steps and wraps his arms around her, burying his face in her shoulder.
She holds him, a little stunned.
“Hey,” she whispers. “I’m here. I’m here.”
⸻
INT. BACK PORCH – NOON
They sit under the warm sun.
She’s wearing one of his flannels over her tank top.
There’s music playing from a small speaker — something soft and old and full of memory.
She’s curled into his side.
“I feel like I’m in a dream,” she says.
“You are,” he whispers. “Mine.”
She laughs and flicks his ear.
⸻
INT. LIVING ROOM – EVENING
They dance.
Slow and quiet, bare feet brushing against the carpet.
The sun is setting outside.
Her arms are around his neck. Her cheek rests against his chest.
“This feels like the old days,” she murmurs.
“It is,” he says. “For today.”
They don’t talk about tomorrow.
⸻
INT. BEDROOM – NIGHT
He tucks her in gently.
She catches his hand before he pulls away.
“If this is the last good day,” she whispers, “thank you for giving it to me.”
He presses his forehead to hers.
“There’ll be more.”
But they both know—
There won’t be.
———
INT. BEDROOM – 6:49AM
She opens her eyes.
Blank.
Empty.
She doesn’t sit up.
Just stares at the ceiling, expression calm and distant.
Bob watches her from his side of the bed.
“Hey, sweetheart,” he says softly.
She doesn’t answer.
⸻
INT. KITCHEN – LATER
He helps her sit at the table.
Feeds her a spoonful of oatmeal. She barely chews.
He watches her hand shake as it rests on the table.
He gently takes it in his.
She doesn’t respond.
⸻
INT. LIVING ROOM – DAYS LATER
She no longer speaks.
No longer blinks when the light changes.
Sometimes she hums. Sometimes she stares at the TV like it’s a window.
Bob reads to her. Always her favorite books.
Sometimes she smiles.
But never at the right moments.
⸻
INT. BATHROOM – NIGHT
He helps her brush her teeth.
She drools toothpaste down her chin.
He wipes it away without flinching.
He washes her face. Kisses her cheek. Carries her to bed.
She curls into him like muscle memory.
But not love.
⸻
INT. BEDROOM – 3:12AM
She opens her eyes.
Just barely.
He’s awake, beside her. Always.
She turns her head slightly.
Her voice is a whisper. Dry. Barely human.
“I think I’m ready to go.”
He doesn’t respond.
Just stares at her.
Tears fall before he even realizes they’re coming.
“Are you sure?” he breathes.
“I’m so tired, Bob.”
He nods.
And kisses her temple.
———
INT. DOCTOR’S OFFICE – ONE WEEK LATER
Bob signs his name first.
Then she signs hers — slow, shaky, barely legible.
Her hand trembles as she sets the pen down.
The physician doesn’t look at them with pity.
Just gentleness.
“You can schedule the date anytime,” she says softly.
Bob swallows hard. Nods.
She doesn’t speak.
Just looks down at her hands.
⸻
INT. KITCHEN – TWO DAYS BEFORE
Bob is labeling photo albums.
She’s curled on the couch, half-asleep, eyes barely open.
He places one album on her lap — their wedding photos.
“You looked like an angel,” he says, softly.
She smiles, weakly. “You cried so hard your nose bled.”
He laughs.
But his voice breaks.
⸻
INT. BEDROOM – THE NIGHT BEFORE
She’s in bed. Clean nightgown. Soft sheets.
Lavender diffuser glowing on the windowsill.
Bob sits beside her, brushing her hair.
“Are you scared?” he whispers.
She nods.
He climbs into bed beside her. Holds her close.
“You don’t have to be.”
“You’ll be here?”
“I’ll be right here.”
She turns, presses her lips to his jaw.
“You stayed longer than anyone ever would’ve,” she whispers.
“I would’ve stayed forever.”
⸻
INT. HOSPICE SUITE – THE FINAL MORNING
It’s quiet. Peaceful. Sunlight streaming through gauze curtains.
There are fresh flowers on the windowsill.
A record plays faintly in the corner — her favorite instrumental.
Bob holds her hand as the doctor speaks, explains the medications.
She watches him. Studying his face like she’s memorizing it.
“Don’t cry,” she says softly.
“I can’t help it.”
She brushes a tear off his cheek.
“You made me feel safe in a world that wasn’t.”
The doctor gives the nod.
Bob cradles her. Whispers over and over,
“I love you. I love you. I love you.”
⸻
INT. HOSPICE SUITE – MINUTES LATER
She closes her eyes.
Her last breath is soft.
Her mouth parts slightly, as if to say his name—
But she doesn’t need to.
He already knows.
And when she’s gone,
he doesn’t let go.
Not for a long, long time.
————
The house looks almost untouched.
A museum. A grave.
The bed is still made on one side. Her slippers still rest at the foot of the dresser.
The living room smells like dust and lavender.
He hasn’t moved most of her things.
He still says “we” in voicemails.
He hasn’t told the bank she’s gone.
⸻
INT. KITCHEN – MORNING
The same cup of tea sits where she left it two months ago.
Bob opens the fridge. There’s spoiled milk, half an onion, and nothing else.
He grabs a bottle of water. Sips it.
Sets it down.
He’s lost weight.
Too much weight. His clothes hang off him.
He opens the cabinet, sees the box of her favorite cereal.
Closes it.
Walks away.
⸻
INT. LAUNDRY ROOM – LATER
He starts a load of her clothes.
Then sits on the floor and watches them spin.
He doesn’t know why.
Maybe because it feels like they’re moving.
Maybe because it feels like she’s still here.
⸻
INT. BEDROOM – 3:41AM
He lays awake.
Not thinking.
Just existing.
Her side of the bed is untouched.
The ceiling fan hums.
He hasn’t slept through the night since she died.
And he’s stopped pretending to try.
⸻
INT. FRONT PORCH – EVENING
Neighbors wave as they walk by. He doesn’t wave back.
He’s skin and bone now. His hands shake.
He wears her wedding band on a chain around his neck.
Sometimes he brings out her favorite blanket and sits in her chair.
He doesn’t cry anymore.
He just stares.
⸻
INT. BEDROOM – FINAL NIGHT
There’s a glass of water on the bedside table.
A photo album beside it.
Her sweatshirt in his hands.
He’s too thin. His heart beats slowly.
He curls onto her side of the bed.
Whispers, “I’ll see you soon.”
And for the first time in months—
He sleeps.
⸻
INT. BEDROOM – MORNING
The sun filters in.
The birds sing.
But Bob doesn’t move.
His body is still.
His face is peaceful.
He died in his sleep.
Alone, but not lonely.
Wrapped in the scent of her.
———
The house was found weeks later.
The neighbors say he just… faded.
He left no note.
Just one sentence in a journal by the bed:
“She left first. But I promised I wouldn’t let her be alone.”
no one tells you how much of life takes practice. not just writing, painting, running, singing, etc, but practicing how to make friends. how to make the right ones. getting practiced at how to be a good friend, a good sibling, a good person. practice identifying when people haven’t earned that. learning to recognize your right to rage and, eventually, how to offer mercy. so much of life is muscle memory, and i’ve begun to realize there are so many more parts of ourselves to flex and stretch and strengthen than those we’re taught in anatomy lessons
at the insane stage of character obsession where i start getting the urge to post pngs of them every five seconds like im showing ppl a picture of my stupid ass boyfriend that nobody likes but me
bitches be like "i love writing fanfiction" and then constantly second guess themselves because what if they're not good enough what if it's cringe what if no one likes it what if people laugh when they see it what if i mischaracterized someone what if i didn't tag it properly what if what if what if
impusively kissing! kissing when laughing! kissing cheeks to say thanks! kissing noses! kissing foreheads! kissing hands! kissing wrists! kissing temples! kissing fingertips! lazy kissing! goodbye kisses! see you later kisses! wait for me kisses! be right back kisses! that is so stupid but i love you kissing!
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