Chapter 38

Chapter Thirty-Eight

Keane

Ophelia bursts into the room, her movements brisk and agitated, the door snapping shut behind her. She’s clutching her phone in one hand, her breathing uneven, and the intensity in her gaze feels like it could pierce right through me. She stops a few feet away, her eyes locking onto mine as though she’s trying to figure something out.

“Is it true?” Her voice trembles, caught between disbelief and something harsher. “That you recognized Rowan? Rowan and not me?”

The question catches me off guard. My brow knits in confusion, but I nod slowly. Her reaction is immediate—her nostrils flare, her lips part like she’s about to say something, but the words don’t come right away. Then her jaw tightens, and she lets out a bitter laugh that slices through the air, chilling the room in its wake.

“And now you can nod,” she snaps, her voice cutting through the air like glass. “What’s next? Are you going to tell me you recognize me too, but you’re pretending I’m nobody? Is that what this is?”

Her words land with an ache I can’t shake, and I want to tell her she’s wrong. I still have no fucking idea who she is. That I don’t think she’s nobody, that she’s everything. But the words are trapped, tangled somewhere between my brain and my mouth, stuck in the mess of my broken body and shattered thoughts. Since I can’t answer, I just blink twice, slow and deliberate, because even shaking my head feels like an insurmountable effort.

Her eyes blaze with something raw, and I don’t know how to touch it, how to soothe it. I want to ask her to sit, to talk, to explain why Rowan’s name has her standing here trembling. But all I can do is blink again, the frustration building inside me like a scream that has nowhere to go.

She paces the room, her movements restless, her hands gesturing as if trying to untangle her thoughts. “What are we doing here? Am I making a mistake?” she murmurs, her words more for herself than for me. “I keep telling myself this is for you, that I’m doing this because I owe you. But every time I walk into this room, it’s like you’re not even here. Like I’m chasing something that isn’t real. I’m losing my life while trying to figure out my old one. And now Rowan gets a part of you that I can’t?”

I blink hard, twice, desperate for her to see that I’m here. That I’m trying. That even if the memories are gone, there’s something I recognize. I don’t have the words to tell her that, but I hope she can feel it. I hope that my silence isn’t mistaken for indifference. It’s my brain not wanting to function. I wish she knew, somehow, that I see her. Even if I barely remember things, I see her.

She steps closer, her eyes locking on mine, her expression crumbling. “I don’t even know what I want out of this,” she whispers, her voice cracking. “Closure, my old life, some kind of absolution. I just—” She pauses, swallowing hard. “I just . . . And even when you’re here I can’t really have you, can I? It’s so fucking unfair.”

The vulnerability in her voice cuts through me like a knife. I want to reach for her, to hold her hand. But my body doesn’t move the way I want it to. My hand twitches—barely, but enough for me to feel the strain of it—and it frustrates the hell out of me.

Should I mention Haydn? Should I tell her he came to visit me, the way he leaned in close before storming out and said, “You haven’t won, asshole. I’m leaving but this isn’t the end. I’m going to figure out how you fucked this up—because my gut tells me that you fucked up. And I swear, if I find out you hurt her, I’ll kill you.”

This woman seems so sweet, so . . . I wouldn’t hurt her. Not on purpose. Obviously, Haydn has got serious anger issues.

But he’s gone, and who the fuck cares about his empty threats? Right?

Ophelia’s shoulders sag slightly, like she’s given up on getting the answers she needs from me. Her eyes drop to the floor, her hand coming up to rub the back of her neck, and the silence between us feels like a gaping void.

“I just—” she starts again, her voice cracking slightly. She looks at me, her eyes softening in a way that stirs something deep inside me, something I can’t quite name. “I want answers, and no one can give them to me. Haydn wants answers and . . . what is there to tell him?”

I want answers too, I want to tell her. But the words are stuck somewhere I can’t reach.

“He thinks I’ve been keeping things hidden, lying to him or . . . I can’t remember his exact words,” she sighs. “It’s not like that. I was transparent or as transparent as you can be when your entire past relationship was sealed by an NDA.”

Whoa, what the fuck is she talking about? Who sealed her relationship with an NDA? Now that’s . . . well, what my parents had, kinda. Too many secrets, so much hiding from one another. They didn’t even care who they were hurting or who was getting hurt while they had their own lives. I close my eyes because I wish those memories were gone but nope, they’re still here, seared in the front of my mind.

“Should I give him your secrets?” she suddenly asks, her tone threaded with frustration and something else, something I wish I could understand. “The reason I didn’t disclose much is because so much of that relationship was you. Your life, your past, the way you let me in when you wouldn’t let in anyone else. And the fucking NDA . . . but your parents aren’t here to do anything, are they?”

Yeah, where are my parents, Ophelia? Mom, at least, should be here. She gives several fucks about me since she discovered that her freedom cost me a fucking lot. But if they’re not here, maybe Ophelia can let me into my life. The parts I can’t find. I need to unlock my brain.

“Our relationship wasn’t perfect,” she continues, her voice softening. “We weren’t perfect, but the love we shared was just right.”

So you choose me and not Haydn. There you go, it’s such an easy solution. Now tell me more about me.

Her lips curve into a small smile, a faint flicker of determination lighting her face. “I think I know how we can bring up some of your memories,” she says. “Music.”

Music? My stomach twists. Does she not see my hands? Can’t she tell I can’t play? And what am I going to do if this plan the doctors and therapists came up with doesn’t work? If I can’t hold a guitar ever again?

The thought claws at me, and suddenly, it’s hard to breathe. My chest feels constricted—not in a way I can push through, but like the air has been stolen from the room. My pulse races, the world narrowing until it’s just the overwhelming panic taking over, suffocating me.

“Keane?” Her voice cuts through the haze, and then she’s right in front of me, her hands reaching for mine. “Hey, look at me. Just breathe.”

Breathe? I can’t. The air’s too thick, too much.

She shifts closer, her hands firm but gentle, grounding me. “Okay,” she says softly, her voice calm but urgent. “Follow me. In through your nose, out through your mouth. You can do this.”

Her voice cuts through the haze, breaking into the overwhelming spiral. My focus shifts to her face, the warmth of her hands holding mine drawing me back to the present. She’s close—so close I can see every detail: the faint freckles scattered across her nose, the delicate sweep of her lashes, the gentle movement of her lips forming words that guide me, pulling me back from the brink.

“That’s it,” she murmurs, her thumbs brushing over my knuckles in soft, soothing strokes. “You’re okay. I’m here.”

I follow her lead, forcing air in through my nose, then out through my mouth. It’s slow at first, uneven, but the rhythm starts to come, shaky but real. The tension in my chest loosens just enough for the air to flow again.

Her hands stay on mine, her touch firm and reassuring. She shifts closer, so close that I can feel the warmth of her presence, the way her gaze holds mine like she’s willing me to come back.

“You’ve got this.”

Her words sink into me, the panic receding just enough to leave me feeling raw, exposed. But there’s something else too—her touch, her voice, her being here. It feels familiar in a way I can’t explain, like a thread connecting me to something I’ve lost.

I stare at her, my breath still uneven but less desperate now.

“Let me get something from my room. You need music. That’s going to be the cure.”