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I shake my head, then immediately regret the movement as pain shoots through my skull. “No, I… I can’t remember anything. Why am I here?”

The nurse’s expression shifts subtly. She busies herself adjusting my IV line. “Let me get the doctor.”

“Wait,” I call after her, but she’s already gone.

Why isn’t she talking to me? What can’t she tell me?

The room feels too large, too empty. I look down at my hands— they’re mine, I know they’re mine, but they feel like they belong to a stranger. The wedding ring I expect to see isn’t there.

Was I expecting a ring? I’m not sure anymore. If I’m pregnant, surely there should be a ring. And a husband?

A husband. I can’t remember being married. Loving someone. All I feel is this overwhelming blank space where the memories should be.

Minutes crawl by like hours before the door opens again. A distinguished-looking Indian man in a white coat enters, followed by the nurse. His salt-and-pepper hair is neatly combed, and he carries a tablet, his eyes focused on the screen before finally lifting to meet mine. The fluorescent lights cast harsh shadows across his face, highlighting the tired lines around his eyes—the mark of someone who’s probably been on shift far too long. My heart thuds against my ribs as I straighten, hands gripping the edge of the bed tightly.

“I’m Dr. Malhotra,” he introduces himself, his accent carrying traces of British education. “How are you feeling?”

“Confused,” I admit. “Everything’s… blank.” My fingers twist nervously in the thin hospital blanket, seeking something familiar to hold onto.

He pulls up a chair beside my bed, his manner gentle but professional. “Can you tell me your name?”

“Stella.” At least I remember that much. “Stella…” I falter, reaching for my surname but coming up empty. The absence feels like a physical hole in my mind, a dark space where something important should be.

The doctor frowns. “Fermont,” he supplies, but it doesn’t mean much to me. “Can you tell me what year it is?”

I shake my head and then wince at the lancing pain that shoots from temple to temple. The throbbing intensifies, making my vision blur momentarily.

The doctor’s frown deepens. “Who is the current president?”

Another blank. My chest tightens with anxiety. How can I not know such basic information? I’m an educated woman— I know this about myself somehow, but the specifics remain frustratingly out of reach.

“What’s the last thing you remember?”

I close my eyes, trying to focus. “I know I’m pregnant. I can feel the baby. But everything else is just… fog.” My hand instinctively moves to my abdomen, cradling the small swell there. This connection feels real, undeniable— the only thing I’m certain of in this moment.

Dr. Malhotra makes notes on his tablet. “You suffered a severe head trauma. Memory loss is not uncommon in such cases. Often, it’s temporary.”

Temporary.

Oh, thank God!

The thought of feeling like this indefinitely fills me with dread. Living in this half-state, where I recognize my own body but not the life that inhabits it.

“How long?” My voice sounds small, even to my own ears. Vulnerable in a way that feels unfamiliar.

“That varies from patient to patient. The important thing is to rest and not force the memories. They often return naturally with time.”

He continues asking questions, but I can feel myself drifting. The medication flowing through my IV makes everything feel distant, dreamlike. His voice fades in and out likea badly tuned radio. I try to focus on his words, but they slip away like water through my fingers, leaving me floating in a hazy sea of uncertainty. Sleep takes me.

“Miss Fermont? Miss Fermont,” the voice is insistent.

I try to focus past the fog. There’s a man looming over me and a nurse at my side. “What…?” My throat is dry, my tongue bitter.

“We’re taking you for an MRI, dear.” This nurse is older, more motherly. “Everything is going to be fine.”

“I… Okay,” I croak, because it’s clear that I have no say in the matter. Though I don’t have any urge to resist them. I want them to do whatever is necessary to get rid of this emptiness in my head.

Now, I’m being wheeled down a corridor. The ceiling lights flash past overhead like Morse code, sending sharp pains through my skull with each bright pulse. I close my eyes against the brightness, letting the movement lull me into a half-conscious state. The gurney squeaks beneath me, wheels catching occasionally on the linoleum seams.