Chapter 2: Do You Remember What I Love?

Maya's POV

A week after the funeral, I start an experiment.

Monday morning. Adrian's making coffee in the kitchen, the machine hissing and gurgling. I walk over, keep my voice casual. "Next Thursday is our fifth anniversary."

"Mm-hmm." He doesn't look up.

"You remember what day it is?"

"Sure." He pours coffee into a mug, hands it to me. "Next Thursday. Like you just said."

"I mean the actual date."

Adrian pauses. Smiles. "Babe, you know dates aren't my thing. March... twenty-something?"

"The twenty-first."

"Right. Twenty-first." He leans in, kisses my forehead. "I'll set a reminder."

But he doesn't. I watch him pick up his phone, swipe through the screen a couple times, then switch to his email.

Tuesday, I try again. "My birthday's coming up."

"Yeah?" Adrian glances up. "When's that?"

"June."

"Oh. June." He nods, eyes already back on his photo editing software.

He doesn't ask which day.

Doesn't even ask.

Wednesday night, I'm loading the dishwasher when I say it. "Do you remember where we went on our first date?"

Adrian frowns. Takes his time thinking. "That place by the water... the seafood restaurant?"

"No. The botanical garden. You took me to see the cherry blossoms."

"Oh yeah, yeah." His face clears like he's just remembered. "Cherry blossoms. I remember."

But I can see it in his eyes. He doesn't remember.

Thursday afternoon, Sienna shows up at the studio with some documents.

I'm at a gallery nearby looking at an exhibition, and I figure I'll grab Adrian lunch on the way. He always works through meals, forgets to eat.

I push open the studio door and hear them talking.

"Cherry blossom season's almost here." Sienna's scrolling through something on her tablet, tone light. "Kyoto should be perfect in early April."

Adrian sets down his camera immediately. "Kyoto? You want to shoot cherry blossoms in Kyoto?"

"Just thinking out loud." Sienna laughs a little. "I know this time of year gets crazy for you—"

"No, that's actually brilliant." Adrian's already opening his laptop. "We could do a whole series. Call it 'Cherry Blossom Portraits.' You at the Philosopher's Path, Kiyomizu Temple, Arashiyama..."

His fingers fly across the keyboard.

"Let me check flights right now. First week of April work for you? Wait, didn't you mention your passport was about to expire? Is it still good?"

Sienna blinks, surprised. "You remembered that? I only brought it up like two months ago—"

"Of course I remember." Adrian doesn't look away from the screen. "You're my muse. Details like that matter."

I'm standing in the doorway holding a bag of food from his favorite Thai place.

The containers are warm against my palm.

But I feel cold. Cold starting somewhere deep in my bones and spreading outward.

I turn around. Leave without going in.

Back in my car, I pull out my phone and start scrolling through five years of calendar entries.

I have this system. Everything important gets color-coded. Red for things we do together. Blue for Adrian's work. Green for my own stuff.

Five years of data sliding past on the screen.

And a pattern starts forming. Clear as glass.

Every single red entry—our anniversary, my birthday, my parents' occasions, my gallery opening—Adrian's either late, "forgets," or cancels last minute.

But the blue ones?

Sienna's shoots? Never delayed. Not once.

That coffee shop Sienna mentioned wanting to check out? Adrian went opening day.

Sienna's birthday? He ordered her gift a full week ahead.

I zoom in on one entry from last year. Sienna had mentioned wanting to see some Broadway show, just in passing. Three months later when the touring production came through San Francisco, Adrian bought front-row tickets.

And me?

My birthday last year. I reminded him three separate times. He still forgot.

His explanation: "Babe, you know I've got that condition. The doctor said I'm really bad with dates."

Then he'd pulled out the report. Event-specific amnesia. Official-looking. Impossible to argue with.

I drive to Mount Sinai Medical Center.

That's where Adrian said he got diagnosed.

The nurse at the front desk smiles. "What can I do for you?"

"I need to check on my husband's medical records." I keep my voice steady. "Adrian Cole. He was diagnosed with event-specific amnesia here five years ago."

She types for a minute. "Cole... just a second."

She makes a couple calls. When she looks back at me, her expression is apologetic. "Ma'am, I'm not seeing any neurology appointments for that patient. You sure it was our hospital?"

"Positive." I pull up the photo of Adrian's diagnosis on my phone. "See? Mount Sinai. Neurology Department. Dr. Patricia Foster."

The nurse leans in, studies it. Her face shifts. "Ma'am, we do have a Dr. Foster here, but she's in obstetrics. Not neurology. And this medical record number... the format's off. We switched coding systems back in 2018, but this report's using the old format with a 2019 date."

My hands start shaking.

"So what are you saying?"

"This report didn't come from our hospital." She speaks carefully, like she's trying not to spook me. "You might want to call your insurance company. Or maybe just... ask your husband where he actually got treated. Could've been a different facility."

Our insurance only covers Mount Sinai.

Adrian told me he used our insurance.

I sit in the hospital lobby staring at that report on my phone screen.

Five years.

I spent five years believing a fake diagnosis.

Believing in a disease that never existed.

And Adrian used it as his excuse. His free pass to forget me whenever he wanted.