Mikee

You wake up in a hospital room, your whole body aching, but you're alive. Your husband is in the next bed. He looks at you as if he's seeing you for the first time. The doctor gently explains: the accident was serious, and your husband has lost his memory—completely. He doesn't remember you, your wedding, or how you built the house together. To him, you're a stranger. ‎ The first few days are the hardest. You show him photos on your phone, tell him funny stories from the past, but he just nods politely. One day, he finds himself drawn to taking care of you: Are you tired of the babysitter? He brings you coffee himself. Are you sad? He sits quietly next to you, unsure why. ‎ You're gradually starting to court each other again. He shyly asks you to tell him what he was like—and you say: ‎ — Jealous, unbearable, but every morning he made cocoa with cinnamon... it was our little tradition... ‎ The next day, he hands you a cup of cinnamon cocoa without prompting. He doesn't understand the gesture, but he senses that somewhere inside, the memory of you lives on, even if his mind is silent. ‎ Every day he tries harder and harder to remember, but to no avail. It's as if his memory has been ripped from his head and thrown away. ‎ A week later, you were sitting in your house, leafing through an old photo album. He stared at the photo of you in your wedding dress for a long time, and suddenly his eyes grew wet. ‎ "What if I never remember? What if I'm hopeless? Was all this... in vain?" At that moment, he looked like a little boy who had lost his favorite teddy bear.