Gale stood in front of the door, his hand frozen inches from the polished wood. His knuckles hovered just shy of contact, trembling faintly. The weight of the moment pressed against his chest, making it hard to breathe. He could hear the faint murmur of the hall clock behind him, the steady ticking amplifying the silence that stretched between him and the woman on the other side of the door.
Leila.
She was in there. Waiting. Hoping.
His heart pounded against his ribs, each beat a dull throb of anxiety and longing. He could still hear Anthony’s parting words, firm but compassionate:
“Be honest. Tell her everything. The truth, however painful, is what she needs to heal. The truth will set her free.”
But what if it didn’t? What if the truth shattered her all over again? What if he was the last person she wanted to see?
Gale squeezed his eyes shut, drawing in a sharp breath before finally knocking.
A moment of silence. Then, soft footsteps.
When the door opened, he forgot how to breathe.
There she was.
Leila Blackburn.
Her wide, dark eyes held a mixture of curiosity and wonder. She wore a simple cardigan over a pale lavender dress, her hair cascading loosely over her shoulders. For a moment, neither of them spoke. Gale's throat tightened at the sight of her—so familiar, yet heartbreakingly different. She was thinner, paler, and there was a vacant vulnerability in her eyes that hadn't been there before. The sharpness of her once-defiant gaze was dulled, as if lost in the fog of her forgotten memories.
And then, the impossible happened.
Her eyes brightened. A small gasp escaped her lips, and she smiled.
"Gale…" she breathed.
His heart stuttered.
Before he could respond, she stepped forward and threw her arms around him. The force of the embrace caught him off guard, and for a moment, he simply stood there, stunned. Then, without thinking, his arms encircled her. He held her tightly, inhaling the faint trace of lavender in her hair, afraid that if he let go, she would disappear.
When she pulled back, her eyes were shimmering with emotion. She cupped his face with trembling hands, as if to convince herself he was real.
"I can’t believe it," she whispered, her voice breaking. "You’re real."
Gale frowned slightly, confused by the statement. "Of course I am," he said softly. "Leila, I—"
"You’re in my dreams," she interrupted. Her voice was filled with such quiet conviction that he stilled. "Every night," she murmured, her fingers ghosting over his cheekbone, her eyes drinking him in. "I don’t remember much, but… I remember you. I see you in my dreams."
Gale felt the breath rush from his lungs. He stared at her, stunned, his chest tightening with a sharp, unnameable ache.
"You see me?" he asked hoarsely.
Leila nodded, her eyes filled with a delicate mixture of awe and certainty. "Yes. I don’t remember our life together. I don’t even remember myself sometimes. But you…" She smiled softly, a tear slipping down her cheek. "You’re always there. Always. I dream of you holding my hand, of us laughing in the rain, of you kissing me by the lake. I dream of us dancing." She laughed faintly, shaking her head in disbelief. "I don’t even know if we ever danced, but in my dreams, we do. It feels so real, and I wake up with this… ache. Like I lost something. Like I lost you."
Gale’s breath hitched. His vision blurred slightly as he stared at her, overwhelmed by the rawness of her words. His fingers tightened faintly around her wrist, as though afraid she might slip away.
"We did dance," he whispered brokenly, a sad smile tugging at his lips. "Once. On your parents' balcony, after you stole a bottle of wine and made me swear not to tell Anthony."
Her eyes widened slightly. She stared at him, searching his face for confirmation, and then—remarkably—she laughed. It was soft and musical, and it took him a moment to realize he hadn't heard her laugh like that in years.
"I did that?" she asked, her lips curving into a teasing smile.
Gale chuckled, though his voice was rough with emotion. "You did. You were reckless and a terrible dancer, but I didn’t care. You made me dance anyway."
She shook her head, her laughter turning into a breathless sob. She brushed her fingers over his cheek, as though trying to trace the memories her mind had forgotten but her heart still held.
"Why?" she asked softly, her voice breaking. "Why do I remember you in my dreams but not in my waking life? It doesn't make sense. None of this makes sense."
Her voice cracked slightly, and the vulnerability in her eyes gutted him. Without thinking, Gale framed her face with his hands, brushing his thumbs over her cheekbones. His voice was thick when he spoke.
"Because some part of you remembers me," he murmured, his gaze steady. "Some part of you still knows me—even if you don’t."
Her breath caught, and her eyes searched his. For a brief moment, it felt as though she was trying to peer into the recesses of her forgotten memories, to pull him from the fragments of her lost past.
A tear slipped down her cheek, and Gale gently brushed it away with his thumb.
"I don’t want to forget you," she whispered brokenly.
"You won’t," he promised softly. "I’ll remind you. Every day, if I have to. I’ll be here. Always."
Her lips parted slightly, and her eyes glistened with unshed tears. Slowly, almost tentatively, she raised her hand and placed it over his heart. Her fingers spread out, feeling the steady, reassuring thump beneath her palm.
"I feel like I loved you once," she whispered, her voice trembling. "Did I?"
Gale stared at her, his throat tightening. He swallowed hard, his voice barely above a whisper.
"Yes," he breathed. "You did."
Her eyes softened, shimmering with confusion and hope.
"Then tell me," she whispered. "Tell me everything. Please."
For the first time in weeks, Gale felt the sharp, familiar ache in his chest ease ever so slightly. The woman in front of him may not have remembered him, but she still felt him. Somewhere beneath the fog of her amnesia, she still held on to him—however faintly, however unknowingly. And he would hold on for both of them.
He guided her gently to the sofa by the window. She sat beside him, their hands intertwined. And then, with slow and careful words, he began to tell her their story.
He told her about the day they met—how she had hated him on sight, convinced he was arrogant and conceited. He told her about the summer they spent sneaking out after curfew, lying on the hood of his car, counting stars. He described the scar on his wrist—her handiwork after she dared him to climb the old iron gate. She had laughed so hard when he fell, and she had kissed the wound afterward.
He told her about their first fight, their first kiss, and the night he had held her while she cried over the death of her childhood dog.
And as he spoke, he watched her eyes. Watched as she listened with rapt attention, her fingers tightening around his with every word, her lips trembling slightly as though she could feel the echoes of emotions she could not remember.
By the time he was finished, Leila was crying softly, her hands clinging to his. She didn’t remember, not fully, but she felt it.
And when she reached for him, her hands slipping into his hair as she brought his lips to hers, Gale realized something with aching certainty.
She might have forgotten their past, but her heart still remembered.
And for now, that was enough.