The door creaked open again. A soft knock came right after—as if it mattered, as if the sound hadn't already startled me.
I turned my head, recognizing the presence even before he spoke. There was something too eager in his steps, too practiced in the way he inhaled like he was stepping into a role. A role he knew by heart.
"Cel," he said.
His voice was low and warm, coated in familiarity I couldn't return.
JC.
He stepped into the room like he owned space. Confident, tall, his smile easy and unreadable. Hands in his pockets. Like he was walking into a café, not a hospital room where someone's world had reset.
I blinked at him, waiting for something to stir in my chest. A spark of memory. A trace of affection.
Nothing came.
"Oh," I said flatly. "You're… JC?"
He chuckled like I made a joke. "Still sarcastic, huh?"
I tilted my head. "Was I?"
That seemed to knock the breath out of him for half a second. He tried to recover fast, stepping closer to the bed, but I leaned slightly away. Instinct, maybe. A quiet alarm ringing somewhere deep inside me.
"I brought your favorite," he said, lifting a bag with two hands. "Chicken nuggets and iced tea. You used to devour this after every class."
I stared at it. Then at him.
"That's nice," I said. "But I'm not really hungry."
He faltered.
JC pulled the chair closer to the bed and sat down, legs spread in a casual slouch. He tapped the bag twice before setting it on the table beside him.
"You don't remember anything at all?" he asked, voice softer now.
I shook my head.
He sighed, looking away briefly. "We were together for over a year, Cel. You really don't remember any of it?"
"No," I said plainly. "I don't."
It didn't feel right to lie. I didn't want to pretend. There was something about him—about the way he smiled too perfectly, talked too easily—that didn't sit well with me.
From the corner of my eye, I noticed her.
Lala.
She had been there the whole time, standing near the window, quiet as a shadow. I had almost forgotten she was in the room at all.
Her arms were folded tightly across her chest, knuckles pale. She hadn't said a word since JC arrived. Not even a polite hello. Not even to me.
She looked like she wanted to disappear into the wall.
JC didn't seem to notice her silence—or if he did, he was ignoring it on purpose.
He leaned forward. "You used to hold my hand with your left one and drink with your right. You hated slow songs unless you were sleepy. You once made me walk five kilometers just to get a stupid milkshake because you were craving strawberry and mango at the same time."
He laughed at the memory. Or at least, the version of it he believed in.
"I still have the bracelet you gave me," he added, touching his wrist like it proved something.
I nodded slowly. "That sounds… sweet."
But I felt nothing. No warmth. No echo of love. No ache of something lost.
And all the while, I felt it—Lala's silence like a ghost in the corner.
I didn't look at her yet. I wasn't sure I wanted to see what expression she wore.
JC tried again.
"We had this playlist. Just ours. 'Huling Sandali' was your favorite. You played it on repeat after that night at the beach…"
His voice softened again, like he was trying to pull me back into something intimate. But it didn't work. It felt forced. Scripted.
And then, he reached for my hand.
I pulled it away.
"Don't," I said, sharper than I expected.
He looked stunned. "Cel—"
"I'm sorry," I said quickly, but not kindly. "I just… I don't feel comfortable."
His face darkened for a flicker of a second, then smoothed over. Like a mask sliding back into place.
"No worries," he said coolly, leaning back. "I get it. You're still adjusting."
I studied him now. Really studied him.
He didn't look heartbroken. He didn't look like someone trying to reconnect with someone he loved. He looked… annoyed. Frustrated, even. Like something wasn't going according to plan.
"You're really trying hard to make me remember," I murmured.
"Of course," he said with a lopsided grin. "I care about you."
From the corner, Lala flinched.
The sound was small—just the shift of her shoes against the tile—but I heard it.
I turned my head, slowly, toward her.
She looked like a deer caught in headlights. Eyes wide. Lips tight. Her body so stiff, it was like even breathing might shatter her.
She still wouldn't look at me.
Why?
"You okay, Lala?" I asked.
She blinked and gave a tiny nod, not meeting my gaze. "Yeah. I'm fine."
Her voice trembled on the last word.
JC glanced back at her but quickly returned his attention to me. "She's just worried about you, that's all."
I stared at them both. JC's fake ease. Lala's haunted stillness.
Something's wrong.
The thought curled inside me like smoke.
Something I couldn't name. Couldn't see.
But I could feel it. Like the walls had secrets. Like the room itself knew something I didn't.
"What do you want from me, JC?" I asked suddenly.
He froze. "What do you mean?"
"I mean," I said, "why are you really here?"
He hesitated.
Then he laughed. "I'm your boyfriend. Isn't that enough reason?"
Maybe for someone else. But not for me.
Not anymore.
"I think I need space," I said quietly.
He stared at me, eyes narrowing just slightly. "You're pushing me away."
"I'm protecting myself," I replied.
Lala turned then—just a little. Her shoulders sagged with the words. Like guilt had just landed heavier.
I looked at her again.
And she still wouldn't meet my eyes.