The House That Doesn’t Remember Me
1675 Words
(Ava’s POV)
The world tilts when I open my eyes again.
Gone is the sterile hum of the hospital. Instead, I’m greeted by the quiet luxury of a home soft gray curtains, the faint scent of cedar and expensive cologne, sunlight spilling across a marble floor.
I blink, trying to orient myself.
This… isn’t our apartment.
Or at least not the one I remember.
“Ethan?” My voice is a whisper in the vast space.
“Right here.”
He appears in the doorway, sleeves rolled up, coffee mug in hand. There’s something almost surreal about seeing him like this calm, controlled, like nothing between us ever broke.
He smiles, but it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “How’s your head?”
“Strange,” I admit, touching the bandage lightly. “It feels like I’ve been asleep for years.”
His jaw flexes, just slightly. “You have some catching up to do.”
I laugh softly, trying to ignore the unease crawling under my skin. “You redecorated.”
His gaze flickers around the room. “Yeah. You said you wanted something lighter. More space.”
Did I?
I don’t remember that conversation.
The place feels… cold. Immaculate. Like someone designed it to look perfect but forgot to make it home.
I push the blanket aside and swing my legs over the bed. The silk robe on the chair looks new not something I would’ve picked. “Where’s the blue vase?” I ask.
“What vase?”
“The one I bought from the street market in Florence. You hated it.”
He hesitates for a beat too long. “Oh. It broke.”
Something twists in my chest. “When?”
“A while ago,” he says quietly, setting down his mug.
“You should eat. The doctor said to keep your energy up.”
He offers his hand, steady and patient. I take it but the moment our skin touches, a strange jolt runs through me.
Familiar, yes, but off. Like listening to a song that sounds right but the lyrics have changed.
-----------
The Kitchen
It’s beautiful open, minimalist, all glass and marble. Too modern. Too… new.
I remember us cooking together in a smaller kitchen, laughing over burnt pasta, wine staining the counter. This place doesn’t smell like those memories. It smells like polish and nothingness.
He moves around quietly, making breakfast eggs, toast, and coffee, everything precise, efficient. The way he moves is the same: meticulous, disciplined. The man I married never made breakfast; he always ordered takeout and claimed he’d “burn the house down” if he tried.
“What happened to our apartment?” I ask suddenly.
He freezes mid-motion. “We moved. About a year ago.”
“I don’t remember that.”
“You will,” he says softly, without looking at me.
Something in his voice makes my stomach tighten.
---------
When he finally sits across from me, I study him. He looks good, too good. Sharp black hair brushed back, a hint of stubble, tailored shirt clinging to him like it was made for his body.
Ethan Hale: every inch the composed CEO.
But his eyes tell another story.
There’s guilt there. Regret.
“You’ve been so quiet,” I say, forcing a smile. “Usually you talk too much in the morning.”
That earns a faint chuckle. “Guess I’ve grown up.”
“Since when?”
He doesn’t answer.
I reach for my cup, but my hands tremble. “Everything feels… wrong. I know you, Ethan. I know your voice, your face, your habits but this doesn’t feel like us.”
He exhales slowly. “You’ve been through a lot, Ava. Give it time.”
“Time won’t fix a lie.”
His eyes snap up, sharp and pained. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“I don’t know,” I admit. “It just feels like you’re hiding something from me.”
For a second, I think he’ll tell me. I see the truth flicker in his expression then vanish.
“I’d never hide anything from you,” he says firmly.
It’s a beautiful lie. I almost believe it.
-------
The Painting
Later, while he’s on a phone call in his office, I wander the living room. It’s spacious, elegant, filled with art, all new. No photos of us, no wedding pictures, no messy frames with silly smiles.
But one painting catches my eye.
It’s mine.
I painted it years ago a stormy ocean, half finished. I left it in my old studio when we were… when we were..
The memory fragments.
I trace my fingers over the canvas, the texture grounding me.
That’s when I notice, the date in the corner. 2023.
But I painted this in 2021.
Did I redo it? Or...
“Ava?”
I spin around. Ethan stands in the doorway, phone still in his hand, eyes tense.
“You shouldn’t be walking around too much,” he says.
I gesture at the painting. “When did I finish this?”
He hesitates. “A few months ago. You wanted to repaint it.”
“I did?”
“Yes.”
I look back at the strokes. The brushwork is mine but different. Harder, sharper, colder. Like someone carrying pain in their hands.
It’s my painting, but it doesn’t feel like me.
------
The Memory Flash
That night, as I lie in bed, something flickers behind my eyelids a flash of red wine spilling, my own voice raised, Ethan shouting something back.
The image dissolves before I can hold onto it.
When I open my eyes, he’s sitting by the window, working on his laptop. The city glows behind him, all glass and stars.
“You should sleep,” he says without looking up.
“I can’t,” I whisper. “I keep seeing things.”
He closes the laptop and walks over, sitting on the edge of the bed. “Like what?”
“I don’t know,” I admit. “Moments. Sounds. I heard someone say ‘I’m done.’ It felt like my voice.”
His breath catches, so faint I almost miss it.
He reaches for my hand, his thumb brushing my skin like he’s memorizing it. “Memories take time,” he murmurs.
“Sometimes they come back in pieces. Don’t fight them.”
“Were we happy?” I ask suddenly.
He looks at me then really looks. His eyes are full of ghosts.
“Yes,” he says after a long pause. “We were.”
It’s the way he says were that chills me. Past tense.
“Then what changed?” I whisper.
He doesn’t answer. Instead, he leans in and presses his lips against my forehead. The kiss is gentle, almost reverent, but there’s a desperation behind it - like he’s trying to rewrite time.
“I love you,” he murmurs against my skin.
“I know,” I whisper back. “But why does it feel like you’re trying to convince yourself?”
He pulls back slightly, eyes wide, caught.
Before he can respond, my head throbs. Sharp pain. I press my fingers to my temple, gasping.
“Ava?”
“I’m fine”
The pain intensifies, flashes of light behind my eyes, laughter, tears, a slammed door.
Then darkness.
--------
Later - Voices in the Dark
I wake to the sound of whispering. Ethan’s voice, low and tense, coming from the hallway.
“I can’t tell her, Lucas,” he hisses. “She’s not ready.”
A pause. Lucas’s voice answers, muffled. “You’re not protecting her, Ethan. You’re protecting yourself.”
My pulse spikes.
“I’m doing what’s best for her,” Ethan snaps. “She doesn’t need to relive that pain.”
“Or maybe you don’t want to relive it.”
I freeze. Every nerve in my body goes still.
Relive what?
Their footsteps fade, but the silence they leave behind is deafening.
When Ethan returns a moment later, I pretend to be asleep.
He sits on the edge of the bed again, his hand brushing my hair gently.
“You’re safe,” he whispers. “I won’t let anything hurt you this time.”
This time.
The words echo in my head until sleep drags me under again.
--------
The next day, sunlight floods the room. Ethan’s gone, but a breakfast tray waits on the table fruit, croissants, a note in his sharp handwriting:
“Meeting at the office. Rest. Don’t stress your memory. – E.”
I pick up the note. The pen pressure is deep, the way he writes when he’s nervous.
I wander the room again, drawn to a half-open drawer by the dresser. Inside, papers, receipts, and something that makes my heart stop.
A newspaper clipping.
“Billionaire CEO Ethan Hale Finalizes Divorce After Two Years of Marriage.”
The date: March 2023.
My name in print. Ava Hale.
My breath catches. Divorce.
No.
I read it again, my hands shaking. The words blur.
“Sources close to the couple confirm irreconcilable differences following Mrs. Hale’s departure from the marital home.”
My knees give out. I grab the dresser for balance, heart pounding.
Ethan lied.
All those moments of hesitation, the missing photos, the new house - it all fits now.
I stumble to the mirror, staring at the woman looking back.
Pale, bruised, broken but awake.
Really awake.
And just as the first tear slips down my cheek, the door opens.
Ethan stands there, holding a bouquet of lilies, his expression soft, until he sees the clipping in my hand.
Our eyes lock.
“Tell me it’s not true,” I whisper.
He doesn’t move. Doesn’t breathe.
And in the silence that follows, I have my answer.
---
“You lied to me,” I say, my voice trembling. “You’re not my husband.”
His jaw tightens, eyes dark and desperate.
“I was,” he says. “And I still am — where it matters.”
- Writer
