The first sign she had from him was the twitching of his fingers around hers.

She'd been leaning with one palm propped under her chin as she stared blankly at him, but the moment she felt it, she was up on her feet, her eyes wide and fingers gripping his tightly. "Dylan?" His eyes were slowly fluttering open, and she was almost breathless as she hovered over him anxiously. "Dylan – "

"Hey, what's going on?" The door opened slightly and Morgan stepped into the room.

Emma spared her a brief glance. "I think he's waking up," she breathed, focusing on Dylan again and watching his eyes open, baby blue irises slowly fixing on her. The smile that spread across her face was instantaneous, and she almost felt her knees buckle in sheer relief. "Hey, you."

He stared at her blankly for a moment, before his eyes slowly slid over to Morgan, who had come up to his other side. "Hi, monkey," he rasped, his voice so low and scratchy that he didn't quite sound like himself.

Morgan's grin widened at his typical nickname for her. "Finally decided to wake up, Sleeping Beauty?"

"Shut up – " he trailed off as a sudden fit of coughing wracked his body, and Morgan hastily reached for the glass of water on the nearby table, holding it up for him and patiently waiting for him to take a few sips.

His coughs subsided after awhile, and Emma smiled at him. "Dylan," the syllables of his name were soft on her tongue and she didn't think she could ever say his name enough times. "How're you feeling?" She reached out to lay a palm gently on his cheek, but he stilled, eyes darting to her unsurely.

"What're you doing?" He rasped, shifting away from her fractionally.

She blinked. "What?"

"You – " the words were lost on him as he struggled to make sense of the situation, the frown on his face deepening as he stared at her. "Who the hell are you?"

She froze. His question threw her off so much that for moment, her mind stayed completely blank. "What're you talking about?" She asked at last, exchanging a look with Morgan, who seemed equally as baffled as she was. "I'm Emma."

"I don't know any Emmas," he insisted, looking more unnerved by her sheer closeness as each second ticked by, and he turned to Morgan, eyes darting suspiciously between his sister and Emma, the latter of whom was rendered completely speechless. "Who is she – "?

"What's the matter with you?" Morgan rolled her eyes, reaching out to give him an instinctive smack on the head, but thinking the better of it at the very last second and retracting her hand. "That's Emma, you idiot, Emma."

"I don't know – "

The escalating tension was abruptly diffused when the door swung open and Dylan's mother came rushing in, his father following at a more leisurely pace with two cups of coffee in his hands. The both of them paused by the doorway, before his mother rushed into the room. "Oh, honey, you're awake!"

Emma automatically shifted aside for her, waiting as both his parents got their fair share of hugs and questions in. But her mind was in a whirl and she couldn't quite shake the feeling of dread that had settled within from the very moment he'd denied knowing her. Somewhere, at the back of her logical mind, she knew what this was – but surely, this couldn't possibly have happened, could it?

" – He was going on about how he doesn't know who Emma is," Morgan was clarifying the situation, glaring at Dylan with an accusatory look before turning to her parents.

"I really don't," Dylan's gaze was darting from person to person, and he was starting to look both angry and confused now. His gaze finally landed on Emma, and she felt her breath lodge in her throat. He looked at her with the unfamiliarity of a complete stranger, and she swore she could feel the distance between them engulf them whole. "I don't know you."

His words knocked the wind out of her lungs and she couldn't speak. She could barely breathe. The air was suffocating and all she could do was stare at him blankly, as confusion and desperation clouded her mind.

"He's mad – " Morgan declared, but her father cut her off.

"I'll get the doctor," he said, casting another worried glance at Dylan before leaving the room.

"Honey, are you feeling alright?" Dylan's mother asked him, evident concern lacing her tone as she looked between her son and the girl standing quietly in the corner. "That's Emma, she's your girlfriend."

"I don't have a girlfriend," Dylan insisted, the last thread of his patience finally snapping. "Why the hell do you keep saying – " He broke off in another fit of coughing, and his mother hastily reached for the glass of water.

Realising that her presence was only serving to aggravate Dylan's situation, Emma fell a step back. "I'm going to – " she gestured dumbly to the door, and before anyone could say another word, she headed out of the room.

The wall was cool against her back as she leaned against it, tipping her head back, her eyes curiously dry and gaze unfocused as she stared up at the ceiling. She was relieved that Dylan was awake, that was a given, but it was difficult to keep a good clamp down on the panic rising within her. Everything had fallen apart and nothing made sense. The sounds of hurried footsteps made her turn, only to see Dylan's father return with a doctor and two nurses, but she stayed outside while they went in.

She learnt a lot of things after that. How Dylan was suffering from some form of traumatic brain injury, leaving him entirely disoriented and unsettled. They called it post-traumatic amnesia or, in his case, a subset of it, better known as retrograde amnesia. The inability to recall memories formed prior to his injury. He couldn't remember what he'd done the day before, or the week before, or the month before. He couldn't remember any of the conversations he'd had in recent months, or the project that he'd been working on at his job, or the places he'd been, or the things he'd seen.

But most of all he couldn't remember her. Every little thing about her had been wiped clean from his memory, leaving nothing but a blank, empty slate in its place.

* * *

Their booth in the café was tucked away in the far corner. It was quiet, with soft patters of rain against the glass walls, and Emma thought it was the kind of melancholia outside that matched her current mood perfectly.

"Maybe it's not that bad," was the first thing her best friend said, when Emma told her the news about Dylan's amnesia. Scout looked mildly distressed about the revelation, but there was a light of hope in her eyes. "This could be temporary."

Emma instinctively tightened her arms around the baby on her lap when he tried to shift around. The baby was Scout's, one-year three-months and counting, and Emma had fallen head over heels in love from the moment she met him. It was much like the way it had been with Dylan, albeit in a vastly different kind of love altogether.

"I don't think so," Emma replied, hating the despondency in her voice and wishing she could be more optimistic about the whole matter altogether. But it was difficult; especially when Dylan had seemed entirely agitated on the occasions she'd tried to visit him, yelling for her to leave the room because he didn't take kindly to strangers. "It's a gradual recovery process."

"Just give him some time and space," advised Scout, stirring her coffee in an almost absent-minded manner. "He probably just needs some time to adjust."

But Scout's words had made Emma pause momentarily, her mind whirring rapidly as she mulled them over. Something about the idea of being away from Dylan, the idea of letting vast spaces settle between them and time pushing her even farther back from the recesses of his memory was frightening.

Emma looked down at the baby in her arms and then at Scout, who was adding sugar to her coffee. She thought about how far her best friend had come from the moment they'd first met, in college, when Scout was insecure, hesitant and so very, very lost. And now here she was, years down the road, with her husband Dave, a beautiful baby and a wonderful job.

Happy endings – not perfect, but happy, like the one Scout had, didn't come easily. More than anything else, you worked hard for them; you fought for them, until you finally grasped it within your fingers.

"No," Emma found herself saying, as a newfound clarity pounded in her head. Suddenly, things had shifted into perspective and she felt a surge of hope rush through her. "I can't give him time and space."

Scout's eyebrows shot up. "What?"

"No, I don't mean it like that," Emma hastily shook her head in an attempt to rectify what she'd just said. "What I meant was – I can give him time and space, but what I can't give him is the slightest opportunity to cast me completely out of sight and out of mind."

Scout had been a friend with Emma for more than enough years to know when the other girl had something up her sleeve and her eyes narrowed suspiciously now. "What're you planning on doing?"

"He needs – " Emma's eyebrows furrowed contemplatively, before her face brightened moments later. " – signs, little things, that would remind him of me."

"How can he be reminded of something he's already forgotten?" asked Scout in confusion, ever the logical one in this friendship.

"He doesn't have to remember me now," explained Emma, a tiny smile playing on her face as she thought of the possibilities and outcomes of her plan. "He just needs to know that there is something he forgot, that I am someone he forgot." Smile widening, Emma pressed a quick kiss to the baby's forehead and looked up at Scout, who was watching then with an expression of content on her face. "As long as I'm never completely out of his mind, then there's still hope for us."

* * *

Emma had to wait until Morgan had left the room, seeing the girl disappear down the other hallway before slipping into Dylan's room and letting the door click shut gently behind her.

Ever since Morgan had found out that her brother had forgotten about his girlfriend, she'd been more than aggravated about the situation and had tried time and time again to smack some sense into him. Which only served to make Dylan more frustrated than ever, and Emma didn't think she could deal with that now.

At least, when Dylan was asleep, the usual hostility on his face was completely gone. He looked entirely peaceful, chest rising and falling with slow, steady breaths, eyelashes fanning out against his strong cheekbones and a lock of his dark hair falling into his eyes. The bandage on his head was still there, but the doctors had reduced the layers wrapped around and he looked far better than he'd been days ago.

Quietly, Emma crossed the room, making sure not to scuff her shoes against the floor or knock into any chairs along the way. There was an array of get-well-soon gifts and cards lining the other side of the room – she'd always been the more outgoing of the two, but it was clear to see that plenty of people cared very much about him.

Pushing aside the glass of water on his bedside table, she carefully placed the potted plant that she'd brought with her on the flat surface. Her fingers trembled as she daintily brushed the blue petals, shutting her eyes briefly and hoping against hope that this, the first sign she'd left him, was a significant reminder of what he'd forgotten.

After all, these flowers were Forget-Me-Nots.