Chapter Text
The rain hammered against the windshield in violent sheets, each drop exploding like tiny grenades against the glass. Sandrone gripped the steering wheel tighter, her knuckles white beneath the glow of passing streetlights. The roads were slick, treacherous—London at its worst on a November evening.
Her phone buzzed in the cupholder. Columbina's name lit up the screen, accompanied by a photo of her sleeping peacefully on their couch, dark hair splayed across a cushion, a soft smile on her lips. Sandrone had taken that picture three weeks ago.
She shouldn't answer while driving. She knew that. But it was Bina.
Sandrone pressed the button on her steering wheel to accept the call through the car's speakers.
"Mon cœur," Sandrone said, her voice automatically softening despite the tension in her shoulders. The French endearment rolled off her tongue like honey. "I'm almost home."
"You've been saying that for the past hour." Columbina's voice filled the car, warm and tinged with concern. "The rain's getting worse. Maybe you should pull over and wait it out?"
"I'm fine, baby. Just twenty minutes away." Sandrone switched lanes carefully, watching the taillights of the car ahead blur through the downpour. "Did you eat already?"
"I was waiting for you." There was a pause, and Sandrone could practically see Bina worrying her bottom lip between her teeth. "Sandrone, seriously. The weather report says there's flooding on some roads. I'd rather you be late than—"
"Than what? You worry too much." Sandrone tried to keep her tone light, teasing, even as she squinted through the rain. Visibility was getting worse. "I've driven in worse conditions than this."
"That doesn't make me worry less, you stubborn—" Columbina's sigh crackled through the speakers. "Just... be careful, okay? I need you home safe."
Something warm bloomed in Sandrone's chest, that familiar feeling she'd spent years denying before finally surrendering to it. Six years of yearning, Bina had once told her. Six years of waiting for Sandrone to stop being so stubborn, to let her in.
And now they had this. This comfortable domesticity, these soft exchanges, the promise of coming home to someone who loved her.
"I'm always careful," Sandrone said, allowing herself a small smile. "What did you want to eat? I can stop and grab something if—"
"No! Just come home. We have leftovers, and I just want you here." Columbina's voice dropped lower, more intimate. "I miss you, darling."
Sandrone's grip on the wheel loosened slightly. "It's only been eight hours since I left for work."
"Eight hours too long."
"You're insufferable when you're like this." But Sandrone's voice was fond, betraying the warmth flooding through her. "Fine. I'll be home soon, and you can be as clingy as you want."
"I'm holding you to that." Columbina laughed softly, that sound that never failed to make Sandrone's heart skip. "Drive safe, mon amour. I love you."
"Je t'aime," Sandrone murmured, the words instinctive now, natural. "I'll see you—"
The truck came out of nowhere.
One moment, Sandrone was changing lanes. The next, blinding headlights filled her vision, impossibly close, impossibly bright. The truck driver had hydroplaned, swerving across the median directly into her path.
She didn't have time to scream.
The impact was catastrophic—metal shrieking, glass shattering, the world spinning in a violent kaleidoscope of red taillights and white headlights and darkness. The airbag exploded into her face. Her seatbelt locked, cutting across her chest. The car crumpled like paper.
Through the speakers, Columbina's voice turned frantic. "Sandrone? Sandrone! What was that? Baby, answer me! SANDRONE!"
But Sandrone couldn't hear her anymore.
The last thing she registered before the darkness swallowed her whole was the sound of her own heartbeat, slowing, and the distant wail of sirens piercing through the rain.
Then nothing.
Three weeks later
Columbina sat beside the hospital bed, her hand wrapped around Sandrone's limp fingers. She'd been sitting here every day since the accident, watching the steady rise and fall of Sandrone's chest, listening to the rhythmic beeping of the heart monitor.
The doctors had said it was a miracle she survived. Severe head trauma, broken ribs, internal bleeding—they'd operated twice already. But she was stable now. Alive.
Just not awake.
"The swelling in her brain has reduced significantly," Dr. Arlecchino had told her yesterday, flipping through charts with clinical efficiency. "We're optimistic she'll wake up soon. However, Ms. Columbina, you need to prepare yourself for the possibility of memory loss. With trauma this severe, retrograde amnesia is common."
Memory loss.
Columbina had nodded, thanked the doctor, and then returned to this chair where she'd kept vigil for twenty-one days. She brought books she didn't read. She brought her laptop and pretended to work. Mostly, she just talked.
She told Sandrone about their apartment, about the plants that were somehow still alive despite Sandrone's insistence that Columbina had a black thumb. She recounted memories—their first day of primary school when Sandrone had scowled at everyone except her own reflection in a rain puddle. The countless afternoons throughout secondary school when Columbina found excuses to walk past Sandrone's locker. That night after graduation when everything changed.
"You have to wake up," Columbina whispered, bringing Sandrone's hand to her lips. "Please, darling. I need you to wake up."
Sandrone's fingers twitched.
Columbina's breath caught. "Sandrone?"
Blue-grey eyes fluttered open, unfocused and confused. Sandrone blinked against the harsh fluorescent lights, her brow furrowing in discomfort.
"Hey, hey, it's okay." Columbina stood, leaning over the bed, her heart hammering so hard she thought it might crack her ribs. "You're okay. You're safe. You're in the hospital, but you're going to be fine."
Sandrone's gaze drifted toward her, still hazy with medication and confusion. Her lips parted, dry and cracked.
"Who..." Sandrone's voice was barely a rasp. "Who are you?"
The world stopped.
Four words. Four simple words that shattered everything.
Columbina's hand trembled as she reached up to press the call button for the nurse, her eyes never leaving Sandrone's face. She forced herself to smile, even as her heart splintered into a thousand pieces.
"I'm Columbina," she said softly, her voice somehow steady despite the tears burning behind her eyes. "We've known each other for a very long time."
Sandrone stared at her, those beautiful blue-grey eyes empty of recognition, empty of all the love and warmth and stubborn affection that Columbina had spent years earning.
"I don't remember you," Sandrone whispered.
And Columbina realized, in that moment, that she would do anything—give anything—to make Sandrone fall in love with her again.
Even if it meant starting from zero.
Even if it meant watching the woman she loved look at her like a stranger.
Columbina's hands shook as she stepped out of Sandrone's hospital room, the door clicking shut behind her with a finality that made her stomach turn. She pressed her back against the wall, sliding down until she was sitting on the cold linoleum floor, knees drawn to her chest.
Who are you?
The question echoed in her mind, each repetition a fresh wound. Three weeks of waiting, hoping, praying—and Sandrone had woken up. She'd opened those beautiful blue-grey eyes that Columbina had fallen in love with years ago, and she'd looked at her like a stranger.
Because that's what Columbina was now. A stranger.
Her breath came in sharp, painful gasps. She bit down on her knuckle, trying to muffle the sob that clawed its way up her throat. Nurses passed by, their shoes squeaking against the floor, but Columbina barely registered them. The world had narrowed to this single, unbearable truth: Sandrone didn't remember her.
Didn't remember them.
Six years of yearning. Two years of happiness. Gone, like it had never existed at all.
Columbina fumbled for her phone with trembling fingers. She needed to call Sandrone's parents—they deserved to know their daughter had woken up. They'd been here almost as often as Columbina, taking shifts, bringing food, maintaining the same desperate vigil.
She pulled up the contact and pressed call, bringing the phone to her ear.
"Columbina?" Sandrone's mother answered on the second ring, her French accent thick with worry. "Is everything alright? Did something happen?"
"She's awake." Columbina's voice cracked, betraying her. "Sandrone woke up about ten minutes ago."
"Mon Dieu—Marie! Marie, she's awake!" The sound of fumbling, hurried footsteps. "We're coming right now. How is she? Is she in pain? Did the doctors—"
"She doesn't remember me." The words tumbled out before Columbina could stop them, raw and broken. "She looked at me and asked who I was."
Silence stretched across the line, heavy with understanding.
"Oh, ma chérie," Sandrone's mother breathed, her voice thick with sympathy. "Je suis désolée. The doctors warned us this might happen, but—"
"I know." Columbina pressed her palm against her eyes, willing herself not to break completely. Not yet. "I know they did. I just... I didn't think it would feel like this."
"We'll be there in twenty minutes. Don't leave, d'accord? Stay with her. Even if she doesn't remember, you should be there."
"I will." Columbina swallowed hard. "I'll be here."
She ended the call and let the phone drop to her lap. The hallway stretched endlessly in both directions, fluorescent lights buzzing overhead like static. Somewhere, a machine beeped steadily. Life continued, indifferent to the fact that Columbina's world had just collapsed.
You have to pull yourself together, she thought fiercely. Sandrone needs you. She's confused and scared, and she needs someone calm.
That had always been Columbina's role, hadn't it? The calm one. The composed one. The one who could soothe Sandrone's temper, who could tame her brilliance when it spiraled into frustration. Sandrone used to pretend she didn't need it, would roll her eyes and scoff and insist she was fine.
But late at night, when the world was quiet and Sandrone's defenses were down, she'd curl into Columbina's side and whisper, "You make everything quieter. Like the world isn't so loud when you're here."
Would Sandrone ever say that again? Would she ever look at Columbina with that particular softness, that vulnerability she'd worked so hard to hide from everyone else?
Columbina didn't know. And the not knowing was agony.
She pushed herself up from the floor, smoothing down her long lavender skirt and adjusting the ribbon at her collar. Her reflection in the darkened window across the hall looked pale, her lavender eyes rimmed with red. She couldn't go back in there looking like this.
The bathroom was mercifully empty. Columbina gripped the edge of the sink, staring at her own reflection. She looked exhausted—three weeks of sleepless nights and hospital coffee had carved shadows under her eyes. Her black hair with its dark pink highlights fell limply around her shoulders.
She turned on the tap, splashing cold water on her face. Once. Twice. Again, until the urge to scream had dulled to a manageable ache.
"You can do this," she told her reflection firmly. "You've waited six years before. You can wait again."
But the waiting had been different then. Back then, there'd been hope—the knowledge that Sandrone was slowly letting her in, that every eye roll and tsundere deflection was just Sandrone's way of protecting herself. That underneath the bratty facade, there was someone who cared.
This was different. This was starting from absolute zero, with no guarantee that Sandrone would ever feel the same way again.
What if she didn't? What if Columbina spent years rebuilding their relationship, only for Sandrone to never fall in love with her again? What if those feelings had existed only because of their history, their shared childhood, the specific sequence of events that had led them to that drunken confession in their apartment?
Stop, Columbina commanded herself. You're spiraling.
She dried her face, reapplied a touch of lip balm, and straightened her blouse. The soft fabric and puff sleeves usually made her feel put-together, professional. Today, they felt like a costume.
When she stepped back into Sandrone's room, the doctors were there—Dr. Arlecchino and a neurologist Columbina had met several times over the past weeks. Sandrone was sitting up slightly, looking small and disoriented against the white hospital pillows.
"Ms. Columbina," Dr. Arlecchino acknowledged her with a nod. "We're just conducting some preliminary cognitive tests. You're welcome to stay."
Columbina took her seat in the corner, making herself as unobtrusive as possible. She watched as they asked Sandrone questions—her name (she remembered), her birthday (she remembered), where she was born (France, she said, her accent slightly stronger than usual).
"Do you know what year it is?" the neurologist asked gently.
Sandrone's brow furrowed. "2024? No, wait—" She paused, confusion flashing across her face. "2025?"
"It's 2025, yes. November. Do you remember what you were doing before you woke up here?"
"I..." Sandrone's fingers twisted in the hospital blanket. "No. I don't—I don't remember."
"That's alright. What's the last thing you do remember clearly?"
Sandrone was quiet for a long moment, her blue-grey eyes distant. "University. I was... studying for finals? Engineering finals. Second year." She looked up at the doctor, something like panic creeping into her expression. "Why can't I remember anything after that?"
Second year of university. Columbina's heart sank. That was four years ago. Four years of memories, just... gone.
Including the two years they'd been together.
"You were in a car accident," Dr. Arlecchino explained calmly. "You sustained significant head trauma, which has resulted in what we call retrograde amnesia. You've lost memories from the past several years, but your cognitive function otherwise appears intact. You remember your childhood, your education, your identity."
"But not... not recent things." Sandrone's voice was small, frightened in a way Columbina had rarely heard. Sandrone didn't do frightened. She did angry, stubborn, bratty—but not this.
"The memories may come back with time," the neurologist said. "Or they may not. Every case is different. For now, we'll continue monitoring you, and we recommend cognitive therapy once you're discharged."
Cognitive therapy. Columbina's area of expertise, ironically. She'd spent years studying how the mind worked, how to help people process trauma and recover from it. But all that knowledge felt useless now, when the person who needed help didn't even know who she was.
The doctors finished their examination and left with promises to check in later. Sandrone was left staring at her hands, turning them over as if they belonged to someone else.
Columbina wanted to go to her, to take those hands and promise everything would be okay. But she couldn't. She had no right to that intimacy anymore.
"You said we've known each other a long time," Sandrone said suddenly, not looking up.
Columbina's breath caught. "Yes. Since we were children. Our parents are close friends, and we were neighbors. We went to the same schools—primary, secondary, sixth form."
"All of that, and I don't remember you." Sandrone's laugh was bitter, self-directed. "How is that possible?"
"You remember the schools, don't you? The buildings, your classes?"
"Yes, but..." Sandrone finally looked at her, and the lack of recognition in those eyes was a physical pain. "Not the people. Everything's blurry. Like looking through frosted glass."
"It might come back," Columbina said softly, even though she wasn't sure she believed it. "The doctors said it's possible."
"And if it doesn't?"
The question hung between them, heavy with implications.
"Then we'll deal with that too," Columbina said, surprised by the steadiness in her own voice. "You're alive, Sandrone. That's what matters."
Before Sandrone could respond, the door burst open. Her parents rushed in, her mother already crying, her father's eyes bright with relief. They descended on Sandrone in a flurry of French and tears and careful hugs, mindful of her injuries.
Columbina stood, retreating to give them space. She watched Sandrone's face soften with recognition—she remembered them, at least. That was something.
Sandrone's mother pulled back, cupping her daughter's face. "We were so worried, ma petite. Three weeks, you've been sleeping. Three weeks."
"I'm sorry, Maman," Sandrone murmured, and even now, even like this, Columbina's heart ached at the sound of that voice.
Her father noticed Columbina standing by the window. "Columbina has been here every day," he said, his English heavily accented. "She never left your side."
Sandrone's gaze found her again, something unreadable in her expression. "Why?"
The question was so simple, so devastating.
Columbina managed a smile, the same practiced composure she used with her patients. "Because we're friends. Because your parents couldn't always be here, and someone needed to be."
It wasn't a lie. But it wasn't the whole truth either.
Because I love you, she thought. Because you're everything to me. Because the thought of losing you broke something in me I don't think will ever fully heal.
But she couldn't say any of that. Not to this Sandrone, who looked at her like a kind stranger.
"Thank you," Sandrone said quietly. "That was... kind of you."
Kind. Polite. Distant.
Columbina's smile didn't waver. "Of course."
She excused herself shortly after, claiming she needed to get back to work. Sandrone's parents thanked her profusely, promising to call with updates. Sandrone watched her leave, that same confused, analytical look on her face—like Columbina was a puzzle she couldn't quite solve.
Outside the hospital, the November air bit through Columbina's blouse. She walked to her car on autopilot, unlocked it, sat in the driver's seat.
And finally, finally, she let herself break.
The sobs came in violent waves, her whole body shaking with the force of them. She pressed her forehead against the steering wheel, gasping for air between cries. Tears soaked into her skirt, her hands, the leather beneath her.
Who are you?
She cried for the Sandrone who used to scowl at her texts and respond three hours later with "what do you want" (but always responded). For the Sandrone who'd gotten drunk at their graduation party and admitted she thought Columbina was "annoyingly perfect." For the Sandrone who'd kissed her back that night in their apartment, fierce and desperate and real.
She cried for the lazy Sunday mornings tangled in sheets, for inside jokes about terrible coffee and Sandrone's tendency to lose her keys. For the way Sandrone's face would soften when she said "je t'aime," like the words cost her something precious.
All of it, gone.
When the tears finally subsided, leaving her hollow and exhausted, Columbina sat up. Her reflection in the rearview mirror was a disaster—red eyes, tear-stained cheeks, smudged mascara.
But beneath the mess, there was something else. Something that had carried her through six years of yearning before.
Determination.
Sandrone had fallen in love with her once. That meant it was possible. It meant there was something about Columbina—something real, something true—that had reached past Sandrone's walls and found her heart.
If it happened once, it could happen again.
It would just take time. Patience. Everything Columbina had already proven she possessed.
She wouldn't tell Sandrone they'd been lovers. That would be too much, too fast, too overwhelming. Instead, she'd do what she'd done before: be present. Be patient. Be the calm in Sandrone's storm.
And maybe, if she was lucky—if fate was kind—Sandrone would fall in love with her all over again.
Columbina started the car, wiping her eyes one last time.
This wasn't an ending.
It was a second beginning.
And she would make it count.