Second First Kiss

Chapter 8

I’d wait until he was settled in his study, engrossed in his work – or what he was trying to piece together of it the room smelling faintly of his expensive coffee and the scent of new paper from the files he was reviewing. Then, I’d slip in, ostensibly to tidy up, and put on one of his favourite CDs, setting the volume low, almost subliminal. Beethoven’s Moonlight Sonata. The piece that had played during our first slow dance as husband and wife at our wedding reception. I’d start the track, my heart pounding a frantic, hopeful rhythm against my ribs, and then retreat, leaving the door slightly ajar, watching him from the hallway, pretending to dust a nearby console table.

He wouldn’t react dramatically. No sudden gasps of recognition, no tears. Just… subtle shifts. A pause in his typing. His gaze drifting towards the speaker, a faint frown of concentration. Sometimes, he’d lean back in his chair, his eyes distant, a look of profound, almost melancholic thought crossing his face. He’d stay like that for a few minutes, utterly still, the music filling the space between us, bridging the chasm of his amnesia, before shaking his head slightly, as if clearing cobwebs, and returning to his work. My heart would sink a little each time, deflating like a pricked balloon. Nothing. Or was it something? Was that look a flicker? A stirring? Or just the effect of beautiful music on a mind struggling to find its footing?

I tried other pieces. Debussy’s Clair de Lune the soundtrack to countless

quiet evenings on the sofa, reading together, simply existing in comfortable silence. He’d listen, sometimes rubbing his temples, that same look of distant thought on his face. Bach’s Cello Suites music he’d play when he was happiest, completely absorbed in his work or a complex puzzle. He’d tap his fingers on the desk, a familiar habit, but there was no accompanying hum, no spontaneous burst of off-key singing that used to

follow the music.

It was agonizing, these quiet experiments. Each attempt felt like holding my breath underwater, waiting for a sign, a flicker of the man I knew, only to surface gasping, disappointed, alone. The hope would surge each time I

put on the music, a foolish, desperate voice in my head whispering, this time. This is the one. This will bring him back. And the silence that followed, the lack of outward recognition, was a fresh wave of despair.

Beyond the music, I tried other things. I knew his favorite flower was a

simple white gardenia. He loved their heady scent. I found a local florist

who could source them, placing a small, fragrant bloom in a vase on his

desk, acting as if it was just part of the regular house-cleaning routine, a

touch of nature. He noticed it, I saw him. He picked it up, brought it to his

nose, inhaled deeply. For a second, a flicker. His eyes seemed to soften, a

faint, almost-smile touched his lips. My heart soared. Yes! I thought a

silent scream of hope. Then the flicker vanished, replaced by that familiar, polite confusion. He placed the flower back down, his expression unreadable. Just a pretty flower, I told myself, crushing the rising hope. Just a pleasant scent. Nothing more.

I made his favorite meals. Not serving them to him directly as "Anna" that

felt too bold, too dangerous. But I’d make a batch of his famous chicken curry, the one with the secret blend of spices only I knew, and leave it portioned in the fridge. He’d discover it, ask Eleanor about it. Eleanor, knowing, would simply say, "Oh, Anna must have made it. She's a wonderful cook." He'd eat it, I'd see the empty container later, but there was no comment, no question, and no sign of recognition for a flavor he used to rave about. It was like feeding him a meal cooked by a stranger, even though my hands, guided by years of love and shared meals, had prepared it exactly as he liked it.

Each failed attempt chipped away at my resolve, at the thin veneer of "Anna." The exhaustion was bone-deep, a constant companion that weighed me down, making the simplest tasks feel monumental. I'd catch my reflection in a polished surface hollow eyes, pale face, a body distended with life and barely recognize myself. I was a ghost haunting my own home, living a lie for a man who didn’t know I existed, carrying a child he didn’t know he’d fathered. The loneliness was a vast, empty ocean, threatening to swallow me whole.

Clara, my sister, would call her voice a lifeline in the suffocating silence of

the house after Daniel had gone to bed. "How are you holding up, Sophia?" she'd ask, her voice laced with worry. And I’d tell her about the women, about the music, about the moments of almost-recognition that always seemed to slip away. "He looked at the gardenia, Clara! He smelled it!" I’d whisper, clinging to the smallest signs, desperately trying to convince myself there was progress, that this agony wasn't for nothing. "It's something, Sophia," she’d say gently, but I could hear the hesitation in her voice. She worried about me, about the baby, about how long I could maintain this impossible charade. "Are you sure about this, Sophia? About waiting? Maybe it’s time to tell him. Or let his parents tell him."

And I’d argue, rehashing the doctor’s warnings, the fear of pushing him away permanently. "What if he doesn't believe me? What if he thinks I'm crazy? Or a gold digger trying to take advantage?" The thought of him recoiling from me, looking at me with disgust or disbelief, was more terrifying than the endless purgatory I was currently living. This way, at least, I was close to him. Every day, I saw him and I could ensure he was okay, that he was eating, that he wasn't pushing himself too hard in his tentative return to work. I could watch him, love him from a distance, even if he didn’t know it was me. And I could protect Leo, keep him close to his father, even if that connection was currently one-sided and hidden.

But the physical demands were growing harder to ignore. The baby was getting bigger, stronger, his movements more insistent. My ribs ached from his constant kicking, my lungs felt compressed, making breathing a

shallow, unsatisfying act. Sleeping was difficult, finding a comfortable position almost impossible. The thought of the birth, so close now, was a mix of overwhelming anticipation and sheer, unadulterated terror. How would I manage? Clara would come stay for a few days, help me get to the hospital discreetly, help me recover. But how would I explain the sudden disappearance of the housekeeper, followed by her reappearance with a newborn? It was a logistical nightmare on top of the emotional one.

As the days ticked by, the subtle whispers of the past I was leaving around the house seemed to blend into the sterile silence, unnoticed, unheard. The music played, the flower wilted, the curry was eaten, and Daniel remained a stranger in his own life, in our life. And the date of Leo’s arrival, the day that would change everything, both for better and potentially for much, much worse, loomed larger and larger, a terrifying, beautiful inevitability. The clock was ticking, not just on my pregnancy, but on the impossible secret that was slowly, surely, breaking my heart. The whispers in the halls remained just that whispers, lost in the vast, empty space where Dan’s memories of me used to be. And soon, the cries of a newborn would fill these halls, adding a new layer of complexity, a

new secret, and a new, tiny human who deserved to know his father, even if his father didn’t know him. The tightrope walk was nearing its end. The fall felt imminent.