04
909 Words
CHAPTER FOUR
Evidence
I don’t answer him.
I just stare.
Because what kind of answer is that?
Not—
you’re sick.
Not—
you hit your head.
Not—
this is an experiment.
No.
His answer is:
You remembering me.
Like that’s the obvious thing.
Like I’m supposed to hear that and think Ah yes, of course. My husband. My memory issue. The blue crayon.
Normal Tuesday.
I look back at the calendar.
bring blue crayon.
The handwriting is mine.
I know my handwriting.
I know the way I cross my t’s too hard and loop my y’s weirdly.
I know how my letters lean slightly left when I’m stressed.
This is mine.
And I don’t remember writing it.
That should scare me more than it does.
Instead—
I’m angry.
Because fear makes me mean.
I turn around.
“No.”
Kit blinks.
I point at the calendar.
“No.”
His expression doesn’t change.
I keep going.
“You don’t get to say things like that.”
His eyebrows pull together.
“What things?”
I laugh.
Like he doesn’t know.
Like he didn’t just drop emotional dynamite in my lap.
“Remembering you?”
His face stills.
I throw my hands up.
“What does that even mean?”
Nothing.
He says nothing.
That makes me louder.
“Remembering what? Falling in love with you? Marrying you? Having your child? Leaving Neil?”
His face changes at that.
Tiny.
But enough.
Interesting.
I cross my arms.
“That one bothered you.”
His eyes move away.
Ah.
Noted.
I look back at the calendar.
My pulse feels weird.
I point again.
“Explain the crayon.”
His jaw tightens.
Long silence.
Too long.
I look at him.
“What.”
His eyes meet mine.
And he says—
“You picked it.”
I stare.
“What?”
He gestures toward the calendar.
“You picked blue.”
I blink.
His voice stays quiet.
“You said if it happened again…”
Again.
Again.
I hate that word.
He continues—
“…you wanted something ordinary.”
I frown.
He says—
“You said memory should never look magical.”
I stare.
He shrugs slightly.
“You said if reality could break because of something impossible…”
His eyes move to the calendar.
“…then fixing it should feel stupid.”
I don’t say anything.
His mouth almost smiles.
“You picked a blue crayon.”
That annoys me.
That sounds like something I’d say.
I hate that.
I look away.
The room is too warm.
I walk into the kitchen.
Immediately regret it.
Because it feels—
familiar.
Not in the dramatic movie way.
Not flashes.
Not memories.
Just—
my body knows things.
I know where the glasses are before opening cabinets.
I know where the kettle is.
I know which drawer has utensils.
I stop.
My hand is already opening a drawer.
Inside—
tea bags.
I freeze.
Slowly close it.
No.
Coincidence.
I open another.
Coffee.
Exactly where I expected.
No.
No.
I turn around too fast.
Kit is leaning against the doorway.
Watching.
Not smug.
That somehow makes it worse.
I narrow my eyes.
“You moved stuff.”
His eyebrows rise.
“What?”
“You arranged the house.”
He stares.
I point.
“To manipulate me.”
He blinks.
Then—
he laughs.
Once.
Short.
Immediately stops.
His eyes widen.
Like he forgot he was allowed.
I stare.
Because—
that’s the first normal thing he’s done.
Not mysterious.
Not sad.
Not dramatic.
Just—
a guy unexpectedly laughing.
His mouth presses flat.
“Sorry.”
I blink.
Why did he apologize?
He clears his throat.
Then quietly—
“You arranged the kitchen.”
My chest does something weird.
I ignore it.
I open another cabinet.
Plates.
Navy blue.
Obviously.
I turn.
“You hate navy blue.”
The words leave my mouth before I think.
The room stops.
Kit stops.
My mouth stops.
Silence.
I blink.
What.
His face changes.
Not excitement.
Not relief.
Something softer.
His eyes move over my face.
Very carefully.
Then—
“…Yeah.”
I stare.
My stomach drops.
I don’t know why I said that.
I don’t know him.
I don’t know—
His voice comes carefully.
“You said houses should feel calm.”
I look at the plates.
“You picked navy.”
I stop breathing.
No.
I point.
“No.”
My voice comes out smaller.
He stays quiet.
I shake my head.
“No.”
His face shifts immediately.
Like he realizes something.
He pushes off the doorway.
“Helena—”
I step back.
Too fast.
My shoulder hits the fridge.
My chest feels tight.
Not memory.
Not memory.
I know this feeling.
Panic.
I laugh.
Too hard.
Too bright.
“Nope.”
I grab my phone.
Different phone.
Wrong phone.
I unlock it.
It opens.
My face.
Wallpaper.
Me.
Kit.
Lucas.
On a beach.
I stare.
Kit doesn’t move.
I scroll.
Photos.
Thousands.
Birthdays.
Christmas.
Selfies.
Bad angles.
Hospital.
Road trips.
Arguments captured accidentally.
Little moments.
Years.
Years.
Years.
My hands shake.
One video opens.
My face appears.
Same face.
Older somehow.
I’m looking into the camera.
Smiling.
Then I say—
“If you’re watching this…”
I freeze.
Video Me laughs.
“…it worked.”
I stop breathing.
Video Me looks directly at me.
And says—
“Hi, Helena.”
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