Chapter 5 Memory Flashback, Confrontation

# Chapter 5: Memory Flashback, Confrontation

Two months after my accident, spring had fully arrived. The city was in bloom, with cherry blossoms dotting the park visible from our apartment windows. My life had settled into a strange new normal—physical therapy three times a week, regular neurological check-ups, and gradually getting to know the man I was supposedly going to marry.

Terry and I had established an uneasy truce. He no longer pretended we had a perfect romance, and I no longer treated him like the villain of my high school years. Instead, we were somewhere in between—not quite lovers, not quite friends, but something uniquely our own.

His calligraphy obsession showed no signs of abating. If anything, it had intensified. Master Chen now visited four times weekly, and Terry had converted the guest bedroom into a proper studio with specialized lighting and an antique writing desk he'd had imported from Japan. His corporate assistant regularly complained about having to reschedule board meetings around his calligraphy lessons.

"Your CEO is writing love letters while the Peterson merger is pending?" I overheard her saying on the phone one day. "Sir, with all due respect, the shareholders would have collective heart attacks."

Terry's response had been unapologetic: "The merger will close with or without that meeting. My calligraphy progress, however, is time-sensitive."

I'd found the exchange both amusing and touching. The Terry Walker I was coming to know was nothing if not committed to his goals, regardless of how others perceived them.

That morning, I was enjoying coffee on the balcony when Terry joined me, carrying a small package wrapped in cream-colored paper.

"What's this?" I asked as he placed it before me.

"My first completed project," Terry explained, uncharacteristically nervous. "Master Chen finally deemed it acceptable."

I unwrapped the package to find a handcrafted booklet bound with silk thread. Inside were pages of heavy, textured paper bearing quotes about memory, love, and patience—all written in Terry's new calligraphy. The lettering was beautiful—still clearly developing, but elegant and controlled, nothing like his former chaotic scrawl.

"Terry, this is incredible," I said honestly. "I can't believe how much you've improved in just two months."

His face lit up with boyish pride. "Really? You can read it without getting a headache?"

"It's actually beautiful," I assured him, running my fingers over the ink, feeling the slight impressions where the pen had pressed into the paper. "I'm impressed."

"That's just practice pieces," Terry explained. "The real project is still ongoing. I've started rewriting the letters—beginning with the most recent and working backward. It's going to take time, but..."

"But you have time," I finished, echoing his words from weeks ago.

He smiled. "Exactly."

As I continued to admire the booklet, a strange sensation washed over me—a feeling of familiarity so intense it made me dizzy. The world seemed to tilt slightly, and suddenly I wasn't on the balcony anymore but in a dimly lit restaurant, sitting across from Terry.

*"You're overthinking this," I heard myself saying, sliding a piece of paper across the table. "Just write something honest. Your handwriting is atrocious, but I care more about the content."*

*Terry looked skeptical. "You want me to write a love note to your mother? We've only met twice."*

*"It's her sixtieth birthday, and she specifically requested notes from her 'chosen family' instead of gifts. That includes you, whether you like it or not."*

*"What if she can't read my writing? You're always complaining about it."*

*I reached across the table, taking his hand. "Then I'll translate. I've become fluent in Terry Walker chicken scratch."*

The memory—because that's what it was, a genuine memory—faded as quickly as it had appeared, leaving me gasping slightly.

"Jacqueline? Are you okay?" Terry was leaning toward me, concern etched on his face.

"I remembered something," I whispered, almost afraid that speaking too loudly would chase away the fragile recollection. "We were in a restaurant. You were worried about writing a note to my mother for her birthday. Her sixtieth birthday."

Terry's eyes widened. "That was about eight months ago. October. We were at Maison Laurent, that French place you love."

"I told you I'd translate your chicken scratch handwriting for her," I continued, the details growing clearer as I spoke.

"You did," Terry confirmed, his voice thick with emotion. "And then you spent the rest of dinner drafting increasingly ridiculous messages for me to copy, each one more embarrassing than the last."

I laughed as another fragment surfaced. "I wanted you to write that you were planning to name our firstborn after her, even if it was a boy."

"Bernard Walker does have a certain ring to it," Terry joked, but his eyes were suspiciously bright. "Jacqueline, this is... this is huge. Your first concrete memory."

I nodded, feeling strangely emotional myself. It was just one small moment, insignificant in the grand scheme of our relationship, but it was real—something I knew had happened, not just something I'd been told.

"Do you think it was triggered by this?" I asked, holding up the calligraphy booklet.

"Maybe," Terry said. "Dr. Chen did say that sensory experiences can sometimes unlock memories—sounds, smells, textures."

I ran my fingers over the pages again, hoping for another flash of recollection, but nothing came. Still, one memory was more than I'd had yesterday.

"We should celebrate," Terry declared. "Your first memory deserves a proper acknowledgment."

We spent that evening at Maison Laurent, hoping the familiar environment might trigger more memories. While I didn't experience any more dramatic flashbacks, the restaurant did feel comfortable in a way other places hadn't since my accident. I knew which wines I preferred on their list. I recognized the maître d', though I couldn't recall his name until Terry mentioned it.

Small victories, but victories nonetheless.

Over the following weeks, more memories began to surface—brief, disconnected moments from the past four years. Arguing with Terry about paint colors for the apartment. Celebrating when my sustainable housing design won an industry award. Standing beside my mother's hospital bed, Terry's hand steady on my shoulder.

Dr. Chen was encouraged but cautious. "This pattern is typical," she explained during my check-up. "Emotional memories often return first, followed by more sequential, contextual ones. Don't be discouraged if it feels random right now."

I wasn't discouraged—I was thrilled. Each recovered memory was a piece of myself returned, a confirmation that my life with Terry hadn't been a fabrication.

Then came the day everything changed.

I was in Terry's study, helping him organize his calligraphy supplies. His rewriting project was proceeding methodically—he'd completed nearly six months' worth of letters in his new, elegant hand. The contrast between his original scrawl and his current work was remarkable.

"What should we do with the originals?" I asked, holding up one of the first letters he'd rewritten.

"I thought we'd store them in those archival boxes," Terry said, pointing to a set of acid-free containers he'd purchased. "Unless you'd prefer I destroy them?"

"Absolutely not," I protested. "The originals have character. They're authentic."

Terry smiled. "Even if they give you headaches?"

"Especially because they give me headaches," I countered. "They're part of our story."

Our story. The phrase slipped out naturally, and I realized I had begun thinking of Terry and me as a unit, a connected pair with a shared history—even if I couldn't remember all of it.

As I carefully placed the original letter in an archival sleeve, my hand brushed against a framed photograph on Terry's desk—one I hadn't paid much attention to before. It showed the two of us at what appeared to be a formal event, champagne glasses in hand, my head thrown back in laughter while Terry gazed at me with undisguised adoration.

The frame was ornate silver, antique-looking, with an inscription along the bottom: "The night that changed everything."

The moment my fingers touched the cool metal, the world shifted violently. Colors intensified, sounds became muffled, and I was suddenly elsewhere—standing in a crowded ballroom, dressed in emerald green silk, my heart pounding with nervous anticipation.

*"Jacqueline Alvarez," a smooth, familiar voice said behind me. "You're the last person I expected to see here."*

*I turned to find myself face to face with Terry Walker for the first time in a decade. He was more handsome than I remembered—the boyish arrogance replaced by confident maturity, his features more defined, his stance more assured.*

*"Likewise," I replied, trying to sound casual despite my racing pulse. "Though I suppose the Morrison Foundation attracts all types of philanthropists."*

*"Including architects specializing in sustainable housing?" Terry raised an eyebrow, a gesture so reminiscent of our high school rivalry that I almost laughed.*

*"I'm presenting the eco-community proposal," I explained. "Walker Industries is on the potential investor list."*

*"Ah." Terry nodded, taking a sip of his champagne. "That would be my department now. Sustainable investments."*

*An awkward silence fell between us—ten years of unspoken history creating an almost tangible barrier.*

*"You know," I finally said, gathering my courage, "I've been dreading running into you for years. Rehearsing all the cutting remarks I'd make when we finally crossed paths again."*

*Terry's expression grew guarded. "And now?"*

*"Now I'm wondering if we were ever really the people we thought we were at eighteen." I extended my hand. "Terry Walker, it's not too late to get to know me, right?"*

*The surprise on his face was quickly replaced by something warmer, more genuine than any expression I'd seen from him in our shared youth. He took my hand, holding it perhaps a moment longer than strictly professional.*

*"I would like nothing more," he said simply.*

The memory continued to unspool—our conversation that evening, the unexpected ease that developed between us, the business card I gave him with my personal number hastily scribbled on the back, the tentative plans for lunch later that week.

Then another memory surfaced, and another—our first official date, our first argument about his father's business practices, our first kiss in the rain outside my apartment building. Memories cascaded through my mind like dominoes falling, each triggering the next in a dizzying sequence.

I gasped, dropping the photograph. It hit the carpet with a soft thud as I stumbled backward, overwhelmed by the sudden flood of information.

"Jacqueline?" Terry's voice sounded far away despite him being right beside me. "What's happening? Are you okay?"

I couldn't answer. I was too busy drowning in memories—years of them, rushing back all at once. My promotion to senior architect. Our weekend trips to the beach house. The night Terry proposed on the rooftop garden I'd designed. The fight we'd had about his father's interference in our wedding plans. The car accident—I remembered the accident now, the screeching tires, the blinding headlights, the sickening crunch of metal.

And I remembered something else, something that made my blood run cold.

"Jacqueline, please say something," Terry was begging, his hands hovering near my shoulders but not quite touching me, as if afraid I might shatter. "Should I call Dr. Chen?"

I looked up at him, seeing him with new clarity—both the boy he had been and the man he had become. The man I had fallen in love with. The man I had agreed to marry.

The man who had lied to me from the moment I woke up in that hospital bed.

"We never dated in high school," I said, my voice eerily calm despite the storm raging inside me. "We never even kissed."

Terry's face paled. "What?"

"You said our relationship started in 2019," I continued, the pieces clicking into place with devastating precision. "That was the truth. We had no contact for ten years after graduation. You weren't my high school boyfriend who became my fiancé. You were my high school enemy who I reconnected with as an adult."

Terry swallowed hard. "Your memories are coming back."

"Yes," I confirmed, my voice hardening. "All of them. Including the fact that when I woke up in that hospital, you deliberately let me believe we had been together since high school. You took advantage of my amnesia to rewrite our history."

"I can explain," Terry began, but I was beyond listening.

"You let me think I'd lost fourteen years of memories about us when really, there were only four years to lose!" I was shouting now, the betrayal burning through my initial shock. "Do you have any idea how terrifying that was? To think I'd forgotten over a decade of my life with you?"

I stormed out of the study, needing distance, needing air. Terry followed me into the living room, his expression desperate.

"Jacqueline, please. It wasn't like that. When you woke up and clearly remembered me—hated me—from high school, I panicked. The doctors said familiar things might help your memory return, and I thought—"

"You thought lying to me was the solution?" I spun around, furious. "Creating that fake diary, pretending we'd been together all that time?"

"I abandoned that approach as soon as I realized it was wrong," Terry protested. "I came clean about the diary."

"Only after I caught you!" I grabbed a framed photo of us from the mantel and slammed it down, the glass cracking satisfyingly. "You manipulated me, Terry. You saw my vulnerability and you exploited it."

Terry flinched at my words. "That's not fair. I was trying to help you remember."

"By feeding me lies? How was that supposed to help?" I demanded.

"I was desperate!" Terry's composure finally cracked. "Do you know what it was like? One day you were my fiancée, planning our wedding, talking about our future children—and the next you were looking at me like I was your worst enemy. Like we were still eighteen and I was still that entitled, arrogant jerk who made your life miserable."

"So you decided to gaslight me? Make me question my own mind even more than the amnesia already had?"

Terry ran his hands through his hair, a gesture I now remembered was his tell when he felt cornered. "I made a mistake. A terrible mistake. I admitted it, I apologized for it, and I've been trying to make it right ever since."

"By what? Taking calligraphy lessons?" I scoffed. "As if pretty handwriting could make up for manipulating someone with brain trauma!"

"The letters are real!" Terry insisted. "Everything in them is true—my feelings for you, our history together. Yes, I handled your amnesia badly at first, but I've been honest since then."

"Have you?" I challenged. "Because I seem to recall you telling me we were high school sweethearts who reconnected after college."

Terry shook his head frantically. "No, I never said that. I told you we reconnected at the Morrison Gala in 2019. I told you we had no contact for ten years after graduation. Check the letters—they confirm that timeline."

I paused, trying to remember his exact words through the haze of my early post-accident confusion. Had he actually claimed we dated in high school? Or had I simply assumed that based on the fake diary entries and my own disorientation?

"You let me believe it," I finally said, my voice dropping to a dangerous whisper. "Even if you didn't explicitly say it, you let me believe we had a continuous relationship."

"At first, yes," Terry admitted. "And it was wrong. I knew it was wrong almost immediately, which is why I tried to walk it back, to tell you the truth gradually so as not to overwhelm you."

"The truth," I repeated bitterly. "Like the truth that you've been obsessed with me since high school? That you wrote me letters every day for ten years without my knowledge? That's not romantic, Terry. That's disturbing."

The hurt in his eyes was profound, but I was too angry to care.

"I need to leave," I declared, marching toward the bedroom to pack a bag. "I can't stay here with you."

Terry followed me, keeping a careful distance. "Jacqueline, please. Where will you go? You're still recovering."

"I'll go to Mia's," I said, referring to my best friend who I now remembered clearly. "She's been texting me for weeks, worried about me staying here with you."

"At least let me drive you," Terry pleaded. "Or call a car service."

"I can manage a rideshare app," I snapped, throwing clothes into an overnight bag. "I'm an amnesiac, not an infant."

As I packed, more memories continued to surface—not in the overwhelming flood from earlier, but in steady, manageable waves. I remembered our engagement party, the apartment hunting process, the weekend we spent assembling furniture and arguing over where to place the sofa.

I also remembered loving him—deeply, completely. The anger and betrayal churning inside me now existed alongside those memories of love, creating a confusing emotional maelstrom.

In the living room, I paused by the large TV mounted on the wall. A thought struck me, sharp and sudden.

"Show me proof," I demanded.

Terry looked bewildered. "Proof of what?"

"Proof that we were really engaged before my accident. Proof that I loved you."

"Jacqueline, you're wearing my ring," Terry said softly, gesturing to the emerald on my left hand—the ring I'd continued to wear even through my amnesia, partly out of confusion and partly because it felt wrong to remove it.

"That's not enough," I insisted. "For all I know, you could have put this on my finger while I was unconscious."

The accusation was unfair, and I knew it even as the words left my mouth. Terry's face reflected shock, then hurt, then a determined resolve.

"Fine," he said tersely. He picked up the remote control and navigated to a cloud storage app on the TV. After entering a password, he scrolled through folders until he found one labeled "Engagement Party."

"Watch whatever you need to," he said, handing me the remote. "I'll give you privacy."

He walked to the door, pausing with his hand on the knob. "For what it's worth, Jacqueline, I never meant to hurt you. Everything I did—even the mistakes—came from loving you. Perhaps too much."

The door closed behind him with a soft click, and I was left alone with the TV remote and a folder full of videos. I selected the first one, titled "The Proposal," and pressed play.

The screen filled with an image of a rooftop garden at sunset—the sustainable garden I'd designed for the Walker Industries headquarters, I now remembered. The camera was positioned discreetly behind some potted plants, capturing the moment Terry led me to the center of the garden, where a small table had been set with champagne and flowers.

I watched myself laugh in surprise, heard Terry's nervous speech about love and partnership and future, saw him drop to one knee. Watched myself cry and nod before he even finished the question. Observed our embrace, our kiss, the way we both trembled slightly as he slid the emerald ring onto my finger.

It was undeniably real. The joy on my face couldn't be faked.

I moved to the next video: "Engagement Party." This one showed a gathering at an upscale restaurant, friends and family surrounding us as Terry's father made a surprisingly warm toast. I noticed something strange midway through the celebration—myself slipping away from the main group to retrieve a large poster board, which I then unveiled to the confused guests.

The camera zoomed in to reveal it was a message written in large block letters: "18-year-old Jacqueline, you lost the bet. You really fell for him."

The guests laughed, clearly understanding some inside joke I'd now forgotten again. On screen, Terry pulled me close and whispered something in my ear that made me blush.

I pressed pause, my anger giving way to confusion. What bet? What was I referring to?

The next video was simply labeled "J's Message." It was me alone, sitting in what appeared to be our bedroom, speaking directly to the camera.

"Hey, future me," my recorded self began. "If you're watching this, it means you've forgotten how you fell in love with Terry Walker. Weird thing to forget, but here we are. You probably remember hating him in high school—the smug valedictorian speech, the science fair sabotage, all of it. What you might not remember is the promise you made to yourself at graduation: that you would never, ever fall for someone like Terry Walker."

On screen, I laughed and held up my left hand, showing off the engagement ring.

"Spoiler alert: you failed spectacularly. So here's a message from your past self to your future self: It's real. What you feel for him is real. It took ten years and a lot of growth on both sides, but Terry Walker became the man you couldn't help but love. And trust me, I fought it. Hard. But some things are just meant to be, even if they start with mutual loathing."

The video ended there, leaving me staring at a black screen, tears streaming down my face. The anger that had propelled me through the confrontation was rapidly dissipating, replaced by confusion and a bone-deep weariness.

I found more videos—our vacations, casual moments at home, even a ridiculous dance competition we'd apparently held in this very living room, using the coffee table as a stage. In every video, our connection was obvious, our affection genuine.

After an hour of watching these pieces of my forgotten life, I heard a soft knock at the door.

"Jacqueline?" Terry called. "Your ride is here if you still want to leave."

I wiped my tears, gathered my composure, and opened the door. Terry stood in the hallway, his expression carefully neutral despite the redness around his eyes.

"I watched the videos," I said simply.

He nodded. "And?"

"And I need time to process everything. My memories are coming back in pieces, and it's overwhelming. I'm still angry about how you handled things after my accident, but..." I trailed off, uncertain how to articulate the complex emotions swirling inside me.

"But?" Terry prompted gently.

I met his gaze directly. "But I remember loving you. And that complicates things."

Relief flickered across his face, quickly replaced by cautious hope. "What do you want to do?"

"I still need space," I decided. "I'm going to stay with Mia for a few days while I sort through all these returning memories. Figure out who I am now—the me with the memories of hating you and the me with the memories of loving you."

Terry nodded, accepting my decision with the grace that I now remembered was characteristic of the man he'd become. "I understand. Take all the time you need."

As he helped carry my bag to the waiting car, his movements were careful, respectful of the new boundaries I'd established. Just before I got in, he handed me a small package wrapped in simple brown paper.

"What's this?" I asked.

"The first letter I've rewritten," Terry explained. "From the day we met again at the gala. It seemed... appropriate."

I took the package, our fingers brushing briefly. Even that small contact sent a jolt of familiarity through me—my body remembering what my mind was still piecing together.

"I'll read it," I promised.

As the car pulled away from the curb, I looked back to see Terry standing alone on the sidewalk, watching me leave. The Terry Walker of my high school memories would have been too proud to show such vulnerability. The Terry Walker I'd fallen in love with—the one I was beginning to remember—wore his heart openly, regardless of the cost.

I didn't know yet if I could forgive him for his deception during my amnesia. I didn't know if we could rebuild what we'd had. But as more memories continued to surface, one truth was becoming increasingly clear: the story of us—the real story, not the fabricated one—was far more complex and compelling than any romance he could have invented.