I woke up in a hospital, staring at a handsome stranger. He was rattling on about something, a stream of words that made no sense. My mind was a fog. It wasn't until he said we'd have to postpone getting the license that my brain finally clicked back online. "What license?" I asked, my voice raspy. "The marriage license, Nora. Did you hit your head that hard?" He reached out to touch my forehead, the gesture unnervingly natural. Was he kidding me? I was a girl fresh out of high school, basking in the glory of my college acceptance letters. I wasn't even old enough to legally marry. Who was this con artist? 1 "Doctor!" I shoved him away and craned my neck, shouting. "Doctor, help! There's a creep in here!" A doctor rushed in, flanked by two nurses. Their presence was a shield. I ducked behind the kindly, white-haired doctor and pointed an accusing finger. "I don't know this man! He's trying to trick me into marrying him! He's a kidnapper!" The handsome stranger just looked exasperated. "Nora, I know you're upset. We're just delaying the license, not canceling it. Isabella didn't mean to hurt you, don't hold it against her—" "My phone," I cut him off, looking at the doctor. "I need to call my parents." "Your parents?" The man frowned. "It's not that serious. No need to worry them. It's a long way from Riverbend, it’s not an easy trip for them." My world tilted. "This… this isn't Riverbend?" Now he looked as stunned as I felt. The doctor cleared his throat. "I was about to explain. The fall didn't cause any serious external injuries, but she did hit her head. There's some bruising that can affect memory." "Affect memory?" I whispered. "Are you saying… I have amnesia?" The doctor nodded. "Yes. But don't worry. As the bruising subsides, your memories should gradually return." "How long will that take?" the stranger asked. "It's hard to say. It could be a few months, or it could be a year or two." I noticed the handsome stranger let out a subtle, almost imperceptible sigh of relief. After the doctor left, he picked up a woman's handbag from a nearby chair, pulled out a phone, and handed it to me. "Since you've lost your memory, we can put the wedding on hold. But I really am your boyfriend. See for yourself. Check the photos on your phone." I lit up the screen. The first thing I saw was the date, blazing in the center. 2025. My last memory was the dizzying excitement of checking my final grades after graduation. Six years had passed. 2 My gaze shifted to the lock screen photo. It was a close-up selfie of me and the stranger, our cheeks pressed together. I unlocked the phone and opened the photo gallery. It was filled with pictures of him. From the angles, most of them were candid shots, clearly taken without him knowing. There he was, mid-jump on a basketball court; his profile as he drank from a water bottle; his face peaceful as he slept, head down on a desk... "Wow, you took a lot of secret pictures of me," he said, leaning over my shoulder with a smug tone. "See? Now do you believe we're a couple?" I pushed him away, my face a blank mask. "I have zero memory of you. Stay away from me." "Fine, let me introduce myself." His phone buzzed. He glanced at it, and a flicker of delight crossed his face. He started typing a reply, his attention glued to the screen as he spoke, his tone casual. "I'm Asher Vance. And you're my girlfriend, the one who chased me relentlessly for a year before I finally gave in…" In a few short sentences, he painted a picture of my last few years. Apparently, the moment I stepped onto the campus of Northwood University, I’d set my sights on him, the resident rich boy, and became his pathetic shadow. I followed him everywhere, immune to his attempts to brush me off. I hung on his every word. My pursuit was loud, bold, and shameless. Everyone at Northwood knew who I was. After more than a year of this obsessive chase, it actually worked. Asher, the campus playboy, after a string of short-lived flings and a trail of broken hearts, had finally agreed to be my boyfriend. The entire student body placed bets on how long it would take for him to dump me. But a month passed. Then a year, and another. We graduated, and we were still together. In fact, just recently, after I’d finished my master's degree, Asher had accepted my marriage proposal. He, who never posted anything personal, had made a grand announcement on his social media about us getting our marriage license. Yesterday, we’d gone to City Hall. Right at the entrance, someone had called his name. It was his childhood friend, Isabella, who had been studying abroad for years. She’d bitten her lip, tugging on his arm. "Asher, please, can you not get married?" I’d gotten angry. We argued. In the ensuing scuffle, she tripped me. My head slammed against the stone steps, and I blacked out. When I came to, I was this new, memory-wiped version of myself. Asher was still engrossed in his phone, a slight smile playing on his lips. "Isabella didn't do it on purpose. And you're fine, just a little amnesia. No need to be so dramatic." "She's coming to visit you later, so be nice. Try to be a bigger person." "And for the record, we just grew up together. She’s like a sister to me, so stop being so jealous all the time." I took a deep breath, forcing myself to stay calm. "Did you forget? I have amnesia." "Right now, you're a complete stranger to me. Why on earth would I be jealous?" Asher pocketed his phone and leaned in close, his eyes full of arrogant certainty. "You fell for me at first sight. You told me my face was sculpted exactly to your tastes." "So don't worry," he whispered. "You'll fall in love with me all over again." 3 I stared at the face so close to mine. Sharp, almond-shaped eyes, a high-bridged nose, thin lips, and a jawline that could cut glass. A rebellious glint in his eyes. He looked like a bad boy straight out of a graphic novel. He was definitely handsome. But "sculpted exactly to my tastes"? That was a stretch. He fit my aesthetic, sure. He was a good-looking guy. But my taste in men wasn't a monolith. I liked sharp eyes, but I also liked playful, fox-like eyes. Strong brows and big eyes were great, but so were the intense gazes of men with monolids. I found fair-skinned, boy-next-door types charming, but I also had a thing for rugged men with sun-kissed skin. There was no way I would become some obsessed fangirl just because of Asher's looks. I knew, deep down, that his face alone wasn't powerful enough to captivate me like that. As I was lost in thought, studying his features, a melodic voice floated from the doorway. "What are you two doing?" I snapped back to reality. Asher immediately straightened up, taking two quick steps back, putting a careful distance between us. He turned to the door. "Isabella! You're here." He took the fruit basket from her hands and placed it on the bedside table. "See, Nora? Isabella even brought you fruit. Stop being so petty." The girl, Isabella, wore a floral sundress that highlighted her tall, slender frame. Her wavy hair cascaded down to her waist, her makeup was flawless, and a pair of rimless glasses gave her an air of elegant intelligence. "Nora, I'm so sorry. Yesterday was all my fault. I'm so sorry you got hurt." She gracefully glided to my bedside on her stiletto heels. Before I could say a word, she continued, her voice a soft, concerned murmur. "I really didn't mean to. I was just in a panic. I didn't want to ruin your marriage, but my godmother specifically asked me to stop you." "You have to understand her position. The Vance family is incredibly influential. There are always people trying to get close for the wrong reasons. She's just worried you're only with Asher for his money." "I didn't want you to get married yet either, but for a different reason," she went on, a model of reason and grace. "Marriage is a serious commitment. At the very least, your parents should meet, don't you think? Rushing off to City Hall without involving your families feels a bit… childish, doesn't it?" "And Nora, I know his mother refuses to meet you, but for Asher's sake, you should really try harder to win her approval. There's no shame in humbling yourself for love, in trying to win over your future mother-in-law." "How could you not even try, and just convince Asher to elope like that?" "And one more thing, I need to be clear. Even though my godmother has tried to set me up with Asher more than once, I only see him as a little brother. I have no other feelings for him." I swallowed hard. Holy crap. That was a lot of information to unpack. 4 My mind raced, filtering through the layers of Isabella’s speech. First: Asher wasn't just some rich kid. His family was loaded. Rich enough to create a class divide between them and my middle-class family. Second: Our relationship didn't have the blessing of either set of parents. His mother, in particular, suspected I was a gold digger and had actively refused to meet me. Finally: Isabella was subtly flaunting her special connection to the Vance family. She and Asher were childhood friends, likely from similar, wealthy backgrounds. Most importantly, Asher’s mother was her godmother. They were close. Mrs. Vance had always wanted Isabella for a daughter-in-law. In just a few sentences, she'd managed to issue a challenge and broadcast her superiority. This Isabella was no simple girl. "Don't worry, Isabella. She has amnesia now. She doesn't even remember who I am. We won't be getting married anytime soon," Asher said, his eyes fixed on Isabella, drinking her in as if he couldn't get enough. Isabella shot him a playful glare. "I've told you a million times, call me Bella. I'm older than you!" "By a few months, who cares?" Asher grinned. "I'm gonna call you Isabella. What are you gonna do about it?" It was like watching a puppy fawning over its owner. Usually, I loved watching couples flirt, but this just made my skin crawl. Right now, all I wanted was for both of them to get out of my sight. "I need to rest. You should both go," I said, making it clear they should leave. Isabella’s lip trembled. "Nora, do you dislike me? If you do, I'll leave right now." Asher grabbed her arm as she turned. "You're overthinking it. She's probably just tired. We'll let her sleep." Without another word to me, his supposed girlfriend, he led his childhood friend out of the room. As if I could possibly sleep after being unconscious for over ten hours. Still, their departure was exactly what I wanted. I picked up my phone, determined to figure out what was really going on. Because I didn't believe a single word Asher had said. I’d quickly scrolled through the photos earlier. Most were pictures I’d taken of him, but there were a few of us together. In every single one, including the selfie on the lock screen, I was smiling. And that was the problem. I never just smiled for photos. I grinned. A wide, toothy, unapologetic grin. The one person who knew me best was myself. And looking at those photos, I could see it. Those smiles weren't real. They were forced. I was putting on a performance. I was acting happy for someone else's benefit. 5 And there was one more thing. The most important thing. I was already in love with someone. Asher had his childhood friend, Isabella. And I had my own. Justin Hayes. He was the boy I grew up with. My partner-in-crime, my big brother, my best friend. My entire life was woven with threads of him. He was the genius, the straight-A student, the kid all the parents compared theirs to. He was the star that shone brightly wherever he went, the one you could spot instantly in any crowd. He was the one who patiently tutored me until I aced my final exams. He was the boy I’d started falling for the moment my heart learned how. And he loved me back. We had a plan. We were going to the same university. The moment we got there, we would finally, freely, be together. With someone like him illuminating my entire youth, how could I possibly have fallen for anyone else? I took the phone and dialed the number I knew by heart. A recorded voice answered: "The number you have dialed is no longer in service." Impossible. Like a madwoman, I dialed it again. And again. And again. Each time, the same mechanical voice met my frantic hope. How could it be? The number I'd called a thousand times, the number etched into my soul, was gone? I went back to the photo gallery, scrolling through every single picture from the past six years. Nothing but that stranger, Asher. I checked my notes, my calendar, the university network, every messaging app I could find. Starting from my freshman year, six years ago, my life was completely dominated by Asher Vance. There was no trace of Justin Hayes. It was as if my brilliant, wonderful Justin had simply vanished from existence. Right. My parents. I called my mom. "Nora? Honey, did you get all your graduation paperwork sorted? When are you coming home?" Thank god. It was her familiar, comforting voice. Before I could answer, she kept talking. "If you haven't found a job yet, don't rush it. Come home, relax for a while, then you can start looking." "And that boyfriend of yours… you've been together a few years now, right? You should bring him home to meet us sometime." "We've asked a few times, but you always have an excuse. What's the deal? Is he not willing to come visit?" So, after years together, neither of us had met the other's parents. His parents looked down on me, and either Asher didn't want to meet mine, or… I didn't want him to. My mom was still on the line, asking if I was okay, if I'd lost more weight, telling me to stop dieting. "Mom," I interrupted suddenly. "Where did Justin go?" The chatter on the other end of the line stopped cold. 6 After a long pause, my mom finally seemed to place the name. "Justin? Why are you suddenly asking about him? Didn't his whole family move abroad?" "The Hayes were always like that. They move overseas and it's like they fell off the face of the earth. They haven't been back to visit in years." "We've completely lost touch." "You know, when you were kids, you and Justin were inseparable. We all thought you two would end up together." "Then you went off to college and fell for someone else, and the Hayes family just packed up and left." "It's such a shame. I always really liked Justin. If he were my son-in-law, I'd be a hundred percent happy." So, my mom didn't know what happened between us either. I mumbled a few absentminded words and hung up. Lying in the hospital bed, I tried to piece together the last few years. The day my final grades were posted, I was ecstatic. I ran to find Justin, to tell him we could go to the same university. My memory ends on the street leading to his house. The next thing I know, it's six years later. I have a master's degree. And apparently, from the moment I started college, I fell head over heels for a guy named Asher Vance, acting like a crazy person for him. I shamelessly chased him for a year until he became my boyfriend. Judging by Asher’s condescending tone, I was clearly the one in the subordinate position in our relationship. I couldn't understand it. Even if I had moved on from Justin, my brain was still intact. Why would I do something so stupid? What happened six years ago to turn me into… this? Could someone have… body-swapped with me? No, that didn't make sense. I'd seen handwritten class notes in my phone's photo gallery. The handwriting was identical to mine. The way I used different colored highlighters for different topics—that was my habit. It was clear I’d taken my graduate studies seriously; I hadn't let my supposed love life derail my education. My chat history with my thesis advisor was full of praise for my work. That, at least, was a relief. But if I ruled out something as absurd as a body-swap, how else could I explain the madness of the last six years? Just then, I needed to use the restroom. I got up and walked into the small bathroom. The first thing I saw was my reflection in the mirror above the sink. I froze. The face was mine, but why was I so thin? No wonder my mom had asked if I’d lost more weight. She used to be the one telling me to eat less, that I was getting chubby. I’d never been fat, but I was never skinny either. I had a round face with baby fat. My skin was fair, my cheeks rosy. Justin used to say my face looked like a peeled, hard-boiled egg—smooth and bouncy. But now? My cheeks were sunken. My arms were like twigs. Did Asher like skinny girls? Did I lose all this weight for him? The willpower that would have taken… I couldn't imagine it. I'd always been a foodie. I loved snacks, barbecue, cake, desserts, and bubble tea. Could I really have given all that up for Asher? It was insane. I couldn't believe I was capable of that. I walked over to the toilet and pulled down my pajama pants. Looking at my thighs, I froze again. This wasn't just about weight loss. My thighs were a roadmap of scars, old and new, crisscrossing in a pattern of forgotten pain. I'd been self-harming. 7 "Miss Lynn, you can't be discharged yet! You have an IV drip scheduled for this afternoon!" a young nurse called out, chasing after me. "I have something important to do, I'll be back later!" I waved back at her as I ran. My phone’s shopping apps had my address saved. I’d been renting an apartment on the Northwood campus. Even though I'd graduated, a recent order was still being sent there, so I knew I hadn't moved out yet. I hailed a cab and headed straight there. The keys were in my purse. The moment I walked in, I knew it was my place. The decor, the potted plants, the stuffed animals, the snacks in the fridge—they were all my favorites. The clothes in the closet were all styles I would choose. It was more proof. For the past six years, that person had been me. No body-swapping. I went to my desk and, following my old organizing habits, started searching through the drawers. Finally, inside a file folder, I found it: a stack of medical records. Over the past few years, I’d been seeing a therapist. More than one, actually. The diagnosis was moderate depression and self-harm tendencies. The doctor's notes concluded: Patient is uncooperative and refuses to discuss the root of her issues, making a definitive cause for her condition impossible to determine. So, I was depressed, I was hurting myself, and I knew something was wrong enough to seek professional help. But when I was face-to-face with a doctor, I clammed up. I refused to talk, preventing them from diagnosing me properly, which meant they couldn't treat me effectively. It was a contradiction. If I was going to a therapist, I must have wanted to save myself. Why wouldn't I tell them everything? Was someone… or something… stopping me from talking? I had to find out what happened over these last six years. I called my mom and asked her to take pictures of every page of my high school yearbook and send them to me. Back at the hospital, I sat on my bed and started calling my old high school classmates, one by one. I asked if any of them were in touch with Justin Hayes. I even called my old homeroom teacher and all my other teachers. But it was a dead end. No one knew where he was. That evening, Asher called. He said he was busy but had arranged for his family's housekeeper to bring me dinner. He didn't show up for the next two days. But like clockwork, three meals a day were delivered to my room. By the time I was discharged, I still hadn't seen him again. Back at my apartment near Northwood, I spent a whole day wandering the campus. This was the place Justin and I were supposed to come to together. We’d promised each other we’d both get in, and then we’d finally start our life as a couple. But in the end, I was the only one who came. Why didn't he keep his promise? If he didn't come to Northwood, why did he have to go abroad? Why did he just disappear? What had happened to him?
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