That night, everything changed.
Dinner had ended hours ago, but the tension from earlier still hung heavily in the air. I stayed in my room, replaying every word I had said, every look Zayn had given me after I whispered, That should have been me.
I should not have said it.
I knew I should not have said it.
But I was hurting.
And for one selfish moment… I let that hurt speak.
Then suddenly, screams echoed through the mansion.
Panicked voices.
Running footsteps.
I rushed into the hallway just as I heard Lina shouting.
"Zayn!"
My heart dropped.
I ran toward his room, nearly tripping over my own feet.
When I got there, Zayn was bent over on the floor, clutching his head, his face twisted in agony.
"It hurts!" he groaned. "Make it stop—God, it hurts!"
My chest tightened painfully.
"Zayn—"
He let out another cry, his body trembling violently.
Mrs. Kareem screamed for someone to call the driver.
Everything blurred after that.
At the hospital, we waited outside his room in suffocating silence.
My hands would not stop shaking.
After what felt like forever, the doctor came out.
His expression was grim.
"What happened before the episode?" he asked sharply.
Everyone looked confused.
"What do you mean?" Mrs. Kareem asked.
The doctor frowned. "Something must have triggered this. Did anyone discuss his past with him? Mention forgotten memories? Emotional trauma?"
Silence.
My stomach dropped.
Because I knew.
I knew exactly what caused this.
I swallowed hard.
The doctor's eyes narrowed. "Did someone say something?"
No one answered.
Then slowly—
I stepped forward.
My voice barely above a whisper.
"I did."
Mrs. Kareem turned so fast her chair nearly scraped the floor.
"You what?"
Tears filled my eyes instantly.
"I didn't mean to—"
"You foolish girl!" she shouted. "What did you say to him?!"
"I just—I told him something small, I didn't think—"
"You didn't think?!" she screamed. "Look what you've done!"
The doctor raised his voice. "Enough!"
Silence fell.
He looked directly at me.
"His brain is under severe stress," he said firmly. "Forcing him to remember things before he is ready can trigger migraines, panic attacks, blackouts—even permanent setbacks."
My chest felt like it was collapsing.
Permanent setbacks.
"No…" I whispered.
His expression softened slightly. "If you care about him, do not pressure his memory again."
That sentence destroyed me.
If you care about him.
Because I did.
More than anyone.
And I had just hurt him.
I went home that night numb.
Empty.
The guilt sat in my chest like a weight I could not breathe through.
I replayed his scream over and over in my head.
The pain in his face.
The way he collapsed.
The way everyone looked at me like I had ruined him.
Maybe I had.
I sat alone in my room, tears slipping silently down my cheeks.
"I can't do that again," I whispered to myself.
Never again.
No matter how badly I wanted him to remember—
I could not risk hurting him.
Could not risk breaking him more just because I was desperate.
So that night, I made myself a promise.
I would bury my jealousy.
I would swallow my pain.
I would stop trying to force the truth.
If keeping our past hidden was what protected him—
Then I would keep it hidden.
Even if it killed me.
Even if I had to watch Lina touch him.
Laugh with him.
Stand beside him like she belonged there.
I would endure it.
Because if loving him meant sacrificing my own heart for his safety—
Then so be it.
I wiped my tears and stared at my reflection in the mirror.
"No more mistakes," I whispered firmly.
If I wanted him back…
I had to do it differently.
Not through memories.
Not through truth.
But by making him fall for me again.
Slowly. Naturally. Safely.
I smiled bitterly through my tears.
"Fine," I whispered.
"If you forgot how to love me…"
Then I would make you remember without ever telling you why.
And this time—
I would do it right.
I slept that night with a heavy heart.
No matter how many times I closed my eyes, I kept seeing him on the floor, clutching his head, screaming in pain. I kept hearing the doctor's voice repeating in my mind—If you care about him, do not pressure his memory again.
And I did care.
More than anyone would ever understand.
That was why it hurt so much knowing that my desperation had caused him pain. In trying so hard to make him remember us, I had nearly destroyed the man I loved.
I lay awake in bed, staring at the ceiling, tears sliding quietly into my hair.
Maybe loving him now meant letting go of what I wanted.
Maybe loving him meant keeping our past buried, even if it broke me inside.
Because no matter how badly I wanted him to remember me, I could not watch him suffer like that again.
I pressed my hand against my chest, trying to calm the ache there.
"I'll stop," I whispered into the darkness.
No more hints.
No more trying to make him remember.
No more selfishness.
If I truly loved him, then I had to put his healing before my pain.
Even if that meant watching another woman stand beside him.
Even if that meant pretending I was nothing more than a maid in the home that once belonged to me.
Even if it killed me.
Because if healing him meant breaking myself—
Then I would break quietly.
And love him anyway.