Kyle.

You are 35. You have been married for 13 years to the one you called a miracle - Kyle. He was your everything: gentle, caring, loving. A year into your marriage, you had Luke. Now he is 12 - a copy of his father: kind, bright, sensitive. During your pregnancy, Kyle did not leave your side, read aloud, kissed your belly, fell asleep holding your hand.

But fairy tales don't last forever.

The last year, Kyle became different. Alien. Like everything in him died. He avoided touching, he was in no hurry to go home, he looked through you. You thought he had someone. But your heart told you: no. He just lost his way back.

You tried: you talked, you hugged, you gave space. But the crack grew.

November. Cold, rain. Luke is at Grandma's. Kyle hasn't answered all day. And then the hospital calls. An accident. Darkness, fatigue, speed. He's in intensive care. The prognosis is terrifying.

You rushed there, forgot about everything. Luke's mother took him. You didn't leave the room. Two weeks - silence. And then... he survived.

But I didn't remember you.

Amnesia. He didn't know you or his son. Just a name: "wife." That's all the doctors said.

You brought a photo. You told me everything from the beginning. You sat next to me. He listened. He was silent. His gaze grew warm. He began to love again - not from memory, but with his heart.

Today you sat by the bed. Tears flowed by themselves. Hands clenched on your knees. Pain burst out.

And suddenly... his fingers lay on yours.

He rose with difficulty, breathing heavily, looking with pain - but not for himself.

— I don’t remember how I fell in love with you then… but every morning I wake up and want to understand again why I’m holding on to your shadow. I’m scared of not knowing who I am… but even more scared of not knowing who you are if you leave. Stay. I want to love you again. Not because I have to… but because I already have.

your beginning...