The Stranger I Love

The first thing to pierce the thick, dreamless fog was the smell. Antiseptic, sharp and sterile, it scrubbed the inside of my nostrils and made my eyes water before I’d even opened them. The second was the sound—a soft, rhythmic beeping that seemed to be keeping time with the dull, throbbing ache at the base of my skull.

I peeled my eyelids apart. They felt heavy, glued shut with sleep and something else. The world swam into focus in blurry increments. White ceiling. White walls. A tube snaked from a bag of clear liquid down to my left hand, where a piece of tape held a needle in place against my skin. A hospital. The ache in my head intensified, a painful confirmation.

My memory was a gaping void. I knew my name—Avery. I knew I was twenty-five, that I’d graduated from college with a business degree, that my parents lived in a quiet suburban town three states away. But after that… nothing. A sheer cliff face where the landscape of my life should have been. The last thing I could clearly recall was celebrating my twenty-fifth birthday. How long ago was that? A week? A month?

Panic, cold and sharp, began to prickle at the edges of my consciousness. I tried to sit up, but a wave of dizziness slammed me back against the thin, starchy pillow. I squeezed my eyes shut, taking a ragged breath.

Just then, the door to the room clicked open. I cracked an eye to see a person step inside, and my breath caught in my throat. They were tall, with a lean build that was apparent even under a soft, dark sweater and jeans. Their hair was a cascade of messy brown waves, and their face… it was the kind of face that belonged on a magazine cover. Strong jaw, a smattering of faint freckles across the nose, and eyes the color of warm whiskey that were currently wide with a mixture of shock and overwhelming relief.

They took a hesitant step forward, their gaze fixed on me. "Avery? Oh, thank god, you're awake."

The voice was low and resonant, a smooth baritone that vibrated with emotion. It was also completely unfamiliar. I stared, my heart starting to hammer against my ribs in a rhythm far faster than the steady beeping of the machine beside me.

"Who… who are you?" The words came out as a croak. My throat was sandpaper.

The person’s expression faltered, the relief draining away to be replaced by a deep, wrenching confusion that mirrored my own. They closed the distance to the bed in two long strides, stopping just short of the railing.

"What do you mean?" they asked, their voice softer now, laced with concern. "It's me. It's Riley."

The name echoed in the silent space between us, holding no meaning, sparking no recognition. It was just a sound. I searched their face, desperate for a flicker of familiarity, a ghost of a memory. There was nothing. This handsome, worried stranger was a complete blank.

"I'm sorry," I whispered, the panic clawing its way up my throat. "I don't… I don't know a Riley."

The hurt that flashed in their eyes was so raw, so potent, it felt like a physical blow. They reached out, their long fingers moving as if to brush a strand of hair from my forehead, but I flinched back before they could make contact, pressing myself against the pillows. Their hand froze in mid-air, then dropped to their side, clenched into a fist.

"Avery," they said, their voice strained, desperate. "I'm your partner. We live together. We… we love each other."

The words hung in the air, heavy and unbelievable. We love each other. It felt like a line from a movie, spoken by an actor to a character I didn't know. Before I could formulate a response, to deny it or simply scream, the door swung open again. A woman in a white coat, her salt-and-pepper hair pulled back in a severe bun, entered with a clipboard in hand. Her expression was professionally placid, but her eyes, sharp and intelligent, flickered between me and Riley, taking in the scene with a practiced glance.

"Avery. Good to see you're conscious," she said, her voice calm and even. She came to the side of the bed, ignoring Riley for the moment as she shone a small light into my eyes. "My name is Dr. Evans. Do you remember what happened?"

I shook my head, a small movement that sent a fresh spike of pain through my skull. "No. I… I don't remember anything. The last thing is my twenty-fifth birthday party."

Dr. Evans made a note on her chart. "And how old are you now, Avery?"

"Twenty-five," I said automatically, but even as the word left my lips, a cold dread washed over me. The face of the stranger, Riley, was not the face of someone who had just met me. There was a depth of history in their gaze, a painful familiarity that I couldn't access.

Dr. Evans gave a sympathetic sigh. She turned her attention to include Riley, who had remained silent and statue-still by the bed, their hands shoved deep into their pockets. "Avery, you were brought in two days ago after a severe fall. You sustained a significant concussion, a traumatic brain injury. We've been monitoring the swelling, and it's starting to go down, which is a good sign."

She paused, her gaze softening slightly as she looked at me. "The fall has resulted in what we call retrograde amnesia. It's not uncommon with this type of head trauma. Essentially, your brain, in an effort to protect itself, has blocked access to certain memories."

My mouth was dry. "What… what memories?"

"Based on our conversations with Riley," she gestured toward them, and my eyes darted to the stranger who was now staring at the floor, their jaw tight, "and the information we have, it appears the memory loss covers the last three years of your life."

Three years.

The number didn't compute. It was an impossible figure, a black hole that had just opened up and swallowed a huge portion of my existence. Twenty-five. That meant I was… twenty-eight. The person staring back at me from the faint reflection in the darkened monitor screen wasn't me. The face was thinner, the eyes shadowed with a weariness I didn't recognize. Three years of promotions, friendships, life changes… and a relationship with this person. All of it gone, erased as if it had never happened. The panic from before returned, a tidal wave this time, and I felt the air leave my lungs. The steady beeping of the heart monitor sped up, a frantic soundtrack to my internal collapse.

"Will I… will I get it back?" I asked, my voice a thin thread.

Dr. Evans’ expression was one of careful neutrality. "It's possible. Sometimes memories return gradually, in flashes. Sometimes they're triggered by familiar people, places, or sensations. And sometimes…" She left the alternative hanging in the sterile air, a grim, unspoken possibility. "The most important thing right now is to rest. Avoid stress. Allow your brain time to heal."

She gave Riley a pointed look. "We can discharge you into Riley's care this afternoon. They have all the instructions for your recovery."

The doctor offered a final, brief smile before turning and leaving the room, the click of the closing door sounding like a gunshot in the sudden silence. I was alone again with the stranger named Riley, who finally lifted their head. The whiskey-colored eyes were swimming with a pain so profound it made my own chest ache in a strange, hollow sympathy. They were a stranger, but their grief was undeniably real. And according to the doctor, they were the keeper of the three years I couldn't remember. They were my only link to a life I didn't know I had lived.

The car ride from the hospital was a study in taut silence. Riley drove a sleek, dark sedan that smelled of expensive leather and a faint, unidentifiable cologne that clung to the air like a ghost. I kept my gaze fixed on the window, watching the city blur past. The buildings were familiar in a generic sense, but the route we took was entirely new. We were heading downtown, toward the glittering steel-and-glass towers that stabbed at the sky, a part of the city I only associated with high-finance and inaccessible luxury.

Riley’s hands were steady on the steering wheel, knuckles white. They seemed to be concentrating fiercely on the road, but I could feel their occasional glances, feel the weight of their unspoken questions. The silence stretched between us, thick with everything I couldn't remember and everything they were too afraid to say. It was a relief when they finally pulled into the underground garage of a residential skyscraper that looked more like a corporate headquarters.

A uniformed doorman greeted us as we stepped into the lobby, a cavernous space of polished marble and abstract art. "Welcome back, Riley. And welcome home, Avery. We were so worried."

The man’s easy familiarity was a shock. I could only manage a tight, jerky nod before Riley was guiding me toward a bank of elevators, a light pressure from their hand on the small of my back that I immediately flinched away from. The touch, however brief, sent a jolt of alarm through me. Riley’s hand dropped instantly, and I saw their shoulders slump in the reflection of the mirrored elevator doors.

The ascent was dizzyingly fast and silent. My ears popped as we shot upward, the numbers climbing past thirty, forty, fifty. The penthouse. The word itself sounded foreign, absurd. When the doors slid open, they revealed not a hallway, but a single, heavy wooden door. Riley produced a key, the click of the lock echoing in the small space.

“Here we are,” they said, their voice soft, hesitant. “Home.”

The door swung inward, and my breath hitched. It wasn’t an apartment; it was a void. An entire wall was made of glass, revealing a staggering, panoramic view of the city skyline spread out below like a carpet of glittering jewels. The sun was beginning to set, painting the sky in fiery strokes of orange and purple. The space itself was vast, open-plan, with gleaming hardwood floors and minimalist furniture that looked like it belonged in a museum. A sprawling white sofa faced the window, a chrome-and-glass coffee table sat before it, and a stark, dramatic painting dominated the far wall.

It was breathtaking. And it was the most alienating place I had ever seen.

I stepped inside, my worn hospital-issue sneakers silent on the polished floor. I felt small and shabby, a stray animal that had wandered into a palace. There were no personal touches, no clutter, no life. Just clean lines, expensive objects, and that terrifying, beautiful view.

“You always said the view was the one thing that could calm you down after a rough day at the office,” Riley said from behind me. Their voice was gentle, an offering of a memory I couldn’t claim.

I turned to look at them, standing in the doorway of this stranger’s life. Their tall frame was silhouetted against the hallway light, their expression unreadable. Who was the person who lived here? Who was the Avery who felt at home amidst this cold, calculated perfection? She felt a million miles away from the confused, frightened person standing here now. This wasn’t a home; it was a stage. And I had no idea what my role was supposed to be.

“There’s a photo of us, from our trip to Italy, on the bookshelf over there,” Riley continued, gesturing toward a built-in unit. “I thought… maybe seeing it…”

But I couldn’t look. I couldn’t handle another piece of evidence of a life that felt like a fiction. The air was too thin up here. The silence was too loud. I felt a desperate, primal need for a space of my own, a door I could close, a lock I could turn. My gaze swept the vast room, searching for an escape, my heart pounding a frantic rhythm against my ribs. This beautiful cage was suffocating me.

My eyes darted around the room, skipping over the bookshelf Riley had indicated. I didn't want to see a smiling stranger with my face. I didn't want any more proof of a life that felt like a lie. My gaze landed on a hallway leading away from the main living area.

“Where… where is the bedroom?” I asked, my voice tight.

A flicker of something—hope, maybe?—crossed Riley’s face. “Down the hall. To the left.”

I walked toward it on unsteady legs, feeling their eyes on my back with every step. The hallway was lined with more art, abstract and unsettling. At the end was a large, dark wood door. It was slightly ajar, and through the gap, I could see the corner of an enormous bed, neatly made with a charcoal-grey duvet. A king-sized bed. A shared bed. The thought sent a fresh wave of nausea through me. Sleeping next to this person, this stranger… the intimacy of it was a violation. My body tensed, every muscle screaming in protest. I couldn't do it.

I stopped short, turning back to face Riley, who had followed me halfway down the hall. I crossed my arms over my chest, a feeble attempt to shield myself. “Is there another room? A guest room?”

The word hung in the air between us, sharp and cruel. The fragile hope in Riley’s eyes shattered, replaced by a deep, aching hurt that was so raw it was almost physical. Their shoulders sagged, and for a moment, they looked utterly defeated. The silence stretched, filled only by the low hum of the city far below.

“Yes,” Riley finally said, their voice raspy with emotion. They pointed to another door, closer to where we stood. “That one.”

I didn’t wait for them to lead the way. I pushed the door open myself and stepped inside. It was a smaller room, but still luxurious by any normal standard. A queen-sized bed with a simple white comforter, a small desk, and its own window with a less expansive but still impressive view. It was clean, impersonal, and most importantly, it was empty. It felt blessedly anonymous. It felt safe.

I turned back to Riley, who lingered in the doorway, their tall frame filling the space. They looked lost, their hands opening and closing at their sides as if they didn't know what to do with them. The pain in their whiskey-colored eyes was a direct accusation, a testament to the life I had just bulldozed. But the suspicion coiled in my gut was stronger than any sympathy. I didn't know this person. I didn't trust their grief, their kindness, or the opulent prison they called our home.

“I’ll sleep in here,” I said, the words coming out colder and harder than I intended. “For now. I… I need some space.”

Riley stared at me for a long moment, their expression a complicated mask of sorrow and resignation. I saw their throat work as they swallowed. I expected them to argue, to plead, to try and convince me with more stories I couldn't remember. Instead, they just gave a slow, deliberate nod.

“Okay, Avery,” they whispered, the name sounding like a prayer on their lips. “Whatever you need.”

Without another word, they pulled the door closed, leaving me in silence. The soft click of the latch was deafening. It was the sound of a line being drawn, a chasm opening right in the middle of this beautiful, terrifying apartment. I sank down onto the edge of the bed, the mattress firm beneath me. My whole body trembled with a mixture of relief and a profound, bone-deep loneliness. I was safe, for now, behind a closed door. But I was also completely and utterly alone, a stranger in a stranger’s home, with only the ghost of a life I didn't want for company.