Chapter 7 Amnesia Reset? She Plays It Backwards

# Chapter 7: Amnesia Reset? She Plays It Backwards

Coming home felt both familiar and strange. The apartment—our apartment—remained exactly as I'd left it two weeks ago, yet somehow it seemed different. Perhaps because I was different. My memories had largely returned, creating a complex tapestry of past and present that changed how I saw everything around me.

"I left everything as it was," Terry said, setting my bag down in the entryway. "Except for cleaning up the broken picture frame." He gestured toward the mantel where a new frame now housed the photo I'd smashed during our confrontation.

"Thank you," I said, running my fingers along the back of the sofa—a piece of furniture I now remembered selecting with Terry after three weekends of showroom visits and heated debates about leather versus fabric. "It feels... strange to be back."

Terry hovered uncertainly near the kitchen island. "Would you like some space? I could go for a walk, or work in my study—"

"No," I interrupted. "Let's just... be normal. Whatever that means now."

We settled into an uneasy rhythm over the next few days. Terry resumed his calligraphy practice but scaled back the lessons to accommodate actual work at his office. I contacted my architecture firm, discussing a gradual return to projects now that my memory had mostly recovered. We ate meals together, watched movies in companionable silence, and carefully avoided any topic that might ignite tension.

It was polite. It was cordial.

It was nothing like the passionate, comfortable relationship I now remembered having before the accident.

One evening, a week after my return, Terry found me in the bedroom staring at our engagement photos.

"Penny for your thoughts?" he asked, leaning against the doorframe.

I traced the image of us—my head thrown back in laughter, his eyes fixed on me with unmistakable adoration. "I'm trying to reconcile everything. The eighteen-year-old me who hated you. The me from before the accident who loved you enough to agree to marriage. The me from right after the accident who was terrified and confused. And... whatever version of me I am now."

Terry entered the room cautiously, sitting on the edge of the bed at a respectful distance. "For what it's worth, I see the same Jacqueline in all those versions. Strong-willed, brilliant, unwilling to accept anything less than complete honesty."

"Even when I hated you in high school?"

"Especially then," Terry said with a small smile. "You hated me because I wasn't being authentic. You saw through the facade I presented to everyone else."

I set the photo aside. "I've been thinking about what happens next. For us."

Terry's expression remained carefully neutral, but I could see the tension in his shoulders. "And?"

"And I think we need to start fresh," I said decisively. "Not ignore the past, but not let it dictate our future either."

"What does 'starting fresh' look like to you?" Terry asked.

I considered the question seriously. "I'm not sure. I just know that this careful politeness between us isn't sustainable. It's not who we are."

Terry nodded slowly. "Before the accident, we were planning our wedding. Now..."

"Now I'm not ready for that," I admitted. "I need time. But I also don't want to pretend we're just casual acquaintances."

"So what do you suggest?"

An idea had been forming in my mind for days—perhaps absurd, perhaps exactly what we needed. "What if we tried something... unconventional?"

The next morning, Terry woke to find an empty space beside him in bed. We had resumed sharing the master bedroom but maintained a careful physical distance—another aspect of our strange new dynamic. He found me in the kitchen, making coffee and studiously avoiding eye contact.

"Good morning," he said tentatively.

I turned and fixed him with an icy stare. "Who are you and why are you in my apartment?"

Terry froze, coffee mug halfway to his lips. "Jacqueline?"

I crossed my arms, my expression hostile. "How do you know my name? Are you some kind of stalker?"

Horror dawned on Terry's face. "Oh God, has your amnesia returned? Should I call Dr. Chen?"

He reached for his phone, but I stepped forward and placed my hand over his, unable to maintain the charade any longer. "Terry, I'm fine. I remember everything."

"Then what—"

"I'm pretending," I explained, releasing his hand. "Remember what I said last night about starting fresh? I thought maybe we could... role-play a bit. Go back to the beginning."

Confusion gave way to cautious understanding in Terry's eyes. "You want to pretend you have amnesia again? Why would you want to relive that?"

"Not exactly." I took a deep breath. "I want to pretend I have amnesia that's reset me to the day we met again at the Morrison Gala. Not high school me who hated you, but adult me who didn't recognize you at first."

Terry's expression shifted as he processed my suggestion. "You want us to reconnect the way we did four years ago?"

"Yes, but with a twist," I continued, warming to my idea. "I know who you are now—the real you, not the high school version. But I'm pretending I don't. I want to see if we fall for each other again, without the baggage of the accident and your... misguided attempts to help me remember."

"So I'm supposed to court you all over again?" Terry clarified. "Knowing that you actually remember everything about our relationship?"

"Think of it as a second chance to make a first impression," I said. "No fake diaries this time. No manipulation. Just honest connection."

Terry considered this for a long moment. "This is possibly the strangest suggestion anyone has ever made to me."

"Stranger than taking calligraphy lessons just to rewrite thousands of love letters?" I challenged.

A smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. "Fair point." He set down his coffee mug and extended his hand formally. "Terry Walker. I believe we went to high school together, though it's been many years."

I felt a surge of affection for his immediate willingness to embrace my unconventional idea. Taking his hand, I replied with feigned uncertainty, "Jacqueline Alvarez. You look vaguely familiar, but I can't quite place you."

"We didn't exactly run in the same circles," Terry said smoothly. "I was the insufferable rich kid who thought his family name entitled him to everything."

I raised an eyebrow. "And what kind of person are you now, Mr. Walker?"

"Still figuring that out," he admitted with disarming honesty. "But I'd like to think I've improved with age."

"I suppose we'll see about that," I said coolly, withdrawing my hand. "Now, would you mind explaining why you're in my apartment at seven in the morning?"

Terry hesitated only briefly before improvising. "I'm your... temporary roommate. There was a plumbing issue in my building, and as we reconnected recently at the Morrison Foundation Gala, you kindly offered your guest room for a few weeks."

"How generous of me," I remarked dryly. "And do we have any... history I should be aware of?"

"Only that you once told me I was everything wrong with modern capitalism," Terry replied with a straight face. "You weren't entirely wrong."

Our charade continued throughout the day—me pretending to have no memory of our relationship, Terry playing along by treating me as a somewhat hostile acquaintance rather than his fiancée. It was strange and occasionally awkward, but also oddly freeing. Without the weight of our complicated history, we could interact without walking on eggshells around each other.

That evening, Terry suggested dinner at a small Italian restaurant downtown.

"Just as... roommates getting to know each other," he clarified, maintaining our pretense.

"I suppose I should learn who I'm sharing my space with," I agreed.

At the restaurant, Terry deliberately selected a table different from "our" usual spot—a subtle acknowledgment of our fresh start. As we settled in with menus, I studied him openly, pretending to be assessing him for the first time.

"So, Terry Walker," I began, "what have you been doing since high school? Still coasting on your family name?"

Terry winced slightly. "I deserved that. But no, not anymore. After Harvard Business School—which, yes, my father's donations helped me get into—I spent three years proving myself by working outside the family business."

"Doing what?" I asked, genuinely curious about this chapter of his life that we rarely discussed.

"Sustainable investment consulting in Southeast Asia," Terry replied. "My father considered it a waste of time, which was precisely why I chose it."

"And now you're back at Walker Industries?"

Terry nodded. "Heading up the sustainable development division. It's not what my father envisioned for me, but it's where I can do the most good."

Our conversation flowed naturally after that, touching on subjects we normally avoided—his complicated relationship with his father, my mother's illness and how it had shaped my career choices, our respective regrets about the past.

"You know," I said as we shared dessert, "if someone had told eighteen-year-old me that I'd be having a pleasant dinner with Terry Walker someday, I would have laughed in their face."

"If someone had told eighteen-year-old me that Jacqueline Alvarez would someday look at me without contempt, I wouldn't have believed them either," Terry replied.

"And yet here we are." I raised my wine glass in a small toast. "To second chances."

"To second chances," Terry echoed, his eyes reflecting a hope he was trying hard to contain.

As the days passed, our role-play evolved. We maintained the fiction that I remembered nothing of our romantic history, but "discovered" shared interests and comfortable rapport. Terry was careful never to push, allowing me to set the pace of our reconnection.

One week into our experiment, I found Terry in his study, organizing his calligraphy supplies.

"Still determined to master that?" I asked from the doorway, momentarily breaking character.

Terry looked up, momentarily confused by the shift in our dynamic before smoothly replying, "My handwriting has always been atrocious. I thought it was time to do something about it."

"Mind if I watch?" I asked, entering the room. "I find the process fascinating."

"Not at all," Terry said, gesturing to the chair beside his desk. "Though I should warn you, I'm still very much a beginner."

I sat beside him, watching as he carefully prepared his ink and positioned a fresh sheet of paper. His movements were more confident now, the result of months of dedicated practice. When he began to write, the transformation from his natural scrawl to the controlled elegance of his calligraphy was remarkable.

"What are you writing?" I asked, noticing he wasn't following any practice template.

Terry hesitated before answering. "Something I've been working on for a while. A letter."

I caught a glimpse of my name at the top of the page. "To me?"

"Yes," he admitted. "But it's not finished yet."

"When it is, will you let me read it?"

"Of course."

We lapsed into comfortable silence as Terry continued working, the scratch of his pen against paper the only sound in the room. After observing for several minutes, I stood to leave, but paused at the doorway.

"Terry," I said softly, "what would you do if my memory never returned? If I never remembered our relationship?"

He set down his pen and turned to face me fully. "I'd hope that you might fall in love with me again," he said simply. "But even if you didn't, I'd be grateful for whatever place you chose to give me in your life."

The sincerity in his expression made my chest tighten. Without thinking, I stepped forward, leaned down, and pressed a gentle kiss to his cheek.

"Thank you," I whispered, "for playing along with my strange idea."

Terry remained perfectly still, as if afraid any movement might break the spell. "Is it helping?"

I nodded. "More than I expected."

That night, as we prepared for bed—still maintaining our separate sides like an invisible boundary between us—I made a decision.

"Terry," I said, sitting cross-legged on my side of the bed. "I think I'm ready to stop pretending."

He looked up from his book, his expression guarded. "You want to end the role-play?"

"Yes," I said firmly. "Because I don't need to pretend not to remember us anymore. I remember everything—the good and the bad. And I'm ready to move forward. The real us, not some pretend version."

"What does moving forward look like?" Terry asked cautiously.

In answer, I moved across the bed until I was beside him, close enough to feel his warmth. "It looks like this," I said, and kissed him—our first real kiss since before the accident.

When we separated, Terry's expression was a mixture of hope and uncertainty. "Are you sure? You said you needed time."

"I've had time," I replied. "And our little experiment showed me something important: even starting from scratch, with all my memories and knowledge of your past mistakes, I still choose you."

Terry's eyes glistened suspiciously. "Jacqueline—"

"I'm not saying everything is magically fixed," I clarified. "You broke my trust, and rebuilding that will take time. But I want to rebuild it. I want us."

Terry gathered me in his arms, holding me as if I might disappear. "I don't deserve a second chance."

"Probably not," I agreed, smiling against his shoulder. "But you're getting one anyway. Don't waste it."

"I won't," he promised fervently. "No more secrets, no more manipulation—even with the best intentions."

"And maybe," I added, pulling back to look at him, "you could teach me some calligraphy. I'd like to write a letter of my own."

Terry's smile was radiant. "To whom?"

"To eighteen-year-old me," I said. "Letting her know that sometimes, your worst enemy can become the love of your life. But only if they're willing to do the work to become someone worthy of that love."

"And have I?" Terry asked softly. "Become someone worthy?"

I touched his face gently, tracing the features that had once seemed so hateful to me and now felt like home. "You're getting there. One letter at a time."