Earlier today, while I waited for her text, a thought crept in—and refused to leave.
At the press conference, she’d said she regained her memory two years ago.
Two years.
So why come back now?
If she remembered who she was then, why wait until this moment to return?
I obsessed over it, turned it over in my mind until it felt sharp. Every version of the answer led somewhere dark. Still, I told myself I wouldn’t ask her. I would give her space. I would wait—until I finally asked.
She hesitated for a few seconds.
Her hand turned in mine, stiff and uncertain, just for a fraction of a second—but it was enough. The kind of pause you can’t fake. The kind your body betrays before your mouth can catch up.
Then she said.
"I missed home."
My suspicions settled into certainty.
She was hidin
