He Forgot the Divorce, But Remembered How to Love Me

01

I stared at the divorce papers on the coffee table. The black-and-white text seemed like a cold tombstone, ready to bury my seven-year marriage.

"Emily Shaw," I said to myself, my voice echoing in the empty room. "Sign it, and you'll be free."

Freedom. That word was like sugar-coated poison, sweet but bitter. My marriage to Ethan Grant had reached its seventh year, and we had finally come to the end. There was no messy affair, no fierce arguments—just day after day of indifference, like a thick layer of ice silently covering all the once-burning love. We had become the most familiar strangers, sleeping in the same bed but separated by an ocean.

He was coming home later and later, his cologne sometimes changing, with the usual excuse of "work." Had I ever asked? Of course. But each time, I only received his weary, distant gaze and the same worn-out phrase: "Emily Shaw, stop it. I'm tired."

And that was how my heart slowly turned cold.

Yesterday was our seventh wedding anniversary. I had, by some strange impulse, booked a reservation at the revolving restaurant where we had our first date. I wore that red dress he once said was "too beautiful for words." I waited and waited—until the restaurant closed, until my phone battery died, and until the waiter, with pity in his eyes, brought me a glass of warm water. At 1 a.m., he walked in, reeking of alcohol and unfamiliar perfume.

He didn’t even notice my carefully chosen outfit, merely tugging at his tie with a frown, asking, "Why aren’t you asleep?"

In that moment, I heard something inside me snap. I felt my heart shatter, piece by piece.

"Ethan Grant," my voice was eerily calm. "Let’s get a divorce."

His hands froze in the middle of undoing his tie, and finally, he looked at me. His eyes, which had once been filled with stars and oceans, now only held the depth of an empty abyss. A flicker of something—maybe surprise, maybe... relief?—passed through his gaze, too fast for me to catch.

"Okay," he said, his voice flat, as though we were discussing the weather. "Just get the agreement ready for me."

And so, here we were with this agreement. He was generous—leaving me the downtown penthouse, the savings, and even a portion of his company shares. Was this compensation? Or a buyout? I picked up the pen, the tip hovering over the signature line, my hand trembling slightly. Seven years of my life, all that love—was it worth just a few sheets of paper?

I took a deep breath, closed my eyes, and prepared to sign my name.

Just then, the shrill ringtone of my phone sliced through the silence like a knife. It was Jason, Ethan’s assistant. His voice, usually so composed, was frantic, like I had never heard before: "Ma'am! Mr. Grant… Mr. Grant was in a car accident! On his way to City Hall!"

My mind went blank, a ringing in my ears. City Hall? Was he in that much of a hurry? Couldn’t he wait for one last day to sign that damn agreement?

"How... how is he?" My voice shook, my heart clenching in a vise of icy terror.

"He’s been rushed to St. Mary’s Hospital!" Jason’s voice cracked with emotion. "The situation... doesn’t look good. He has internal bleeding, they’re trying to save him!"

The pen slipped from my hand, falling onto the cold papers with a sharp "clink," leaving a small ink smear. I stared at the smudge, then at the agreement that would seal the death of my marriage. An overwhelming sense of absurdity gripped me.

My goal was to sign my name, to end it all, to be free. But why, when I heard that he might never wake up, did my heart hurt as though it were going to shatter?

02

The smell of hospital disinfectant was overpowering, mixed with a cold, deathly air. I sat on the bench outside the ICU, my hands and feet numb. Jason paced nervously nearby, incoherently explaining the accident: an out-of-control truck had smashed Ethan Grant’s Maybach beyond recognition.

"Mr. Grant... Mr. Grant suddenly said this morning that he was going to City Hall in person..." Jason looked at me warily. "Ma'am, you and he..."

I forced a smile, one more miserable than tears. "Yeah, we were supposed to go there today to get divorced."
How ironic. My path to freedom almost cost him his life.

I don’t know how much time passed before the doctor, dressed in a green surgical gown, finally emerged, his face grave. My heart leaped to my throat.

"Doctor, how is he?"

"The surgery was successful, his life is no longer in danger." The doctor removed his mask, revealing a tired face. "But the head injury is quite severe. There's a hematoma pressing on part of the memory region... He might suffer from amnesia."

Amnesia? I froze.

"How... how bad is it?" Jason asked urgently.

"It’s hard to say. It could be partial memory loss, or it could be more severe..." The doctor paused. "We’ll have to wait until he wakes up to know more. The family should prepare themselves."

Family. I was still his "family." The thought made my heart twist in a thousand ways.

When Ethan Grant was wheeled into the private room, his head was wrapped in thick bandages, his face as pale as paper, fragile like a piece of porcelain. He looked nothing like the man I remembered—the one always in a suit, with an air of authority and distant eyes. I sat by his bed, staring at his colorless lips, his fingers curling reflexively. The divorce papers still lay in my bag, like a burning iron.

Day one, day two... He remained unconscious. I lingered at the hospital like a ghost, dealing with the mountains of business affairs piling up due to his accident (as his only legal relative and shareholder, I had no choice but to step up), fending off the media, my body and mind completely drained. Every time I returned to the ward, looking at his peaceful, sleeping face, a small piece of the frozen tenderness inside me would unintentionally slip out, like a drop of bitter water.

On the third evening, the golden glow of the setting sun filtered through the blinds, casting shifting light and shadows across his face. His eyelashes fluttered slightly.

My heart skipped a beat.

Then, those tightly shut eyes slowly began to open, with obvious effort. They were confused, like the eyes of a newborn, full of bewilderment and unfamiliarity with the surroundings. His eyes roamed vacantly over the ceiling, the IV drip, and finally settled on my face.

His brows furrowed in confusion, as if trying to recognize something. After a few moments of silence, a hoarse voice, almost inaudible, slipped from his cracked lips:

"Emily...?"

My breath caught in my chest. He called me... "Emily"? How long had it been since he used that nickname? After the third year of our marriage, it was just the formal "Emily Shaw."

He looked at me, and the confusion in his eyes gradually gave way to a tenderness—familiar yet so unfamiliar. It was the same look I had once craved, seven years ago, when we were deeply in love, a look that had slowly disappeared over the years. He weakly raised the hand that wasn’t hooked up to an IV, as though he wanted to touch me, but then it dropped again, too weak to lift.

"Emily..." He called again, his voice fragile and full of raw dependency. "What happened to me? My head hurts... Why am I here? Didn’t we... didn’t we plan to go to that private restaurant you love tonight?"

Boom! My mind exploded like a thunderclap.

He’s forgotten! He really has amnesia! And what he’s forgotten, of all things, is the final years of our marriage! His memories are frozen at the time when our love was at its deepest, when he was the most loving and caring toward me—seven years ago!

An opportunity. A ridiculously absurd yet crystal-clear opportunity, like Pandora's box, suddenly laid before me. If I simply play along with his memory, I could temporarily maintain this fragile "marriage." In his most vulnerable, most dependent state, I could pretend to be the wife he once loved deeply.

What should I do? Tell him the cruel truth? Tell him we had already reached the brink of divorce? Tell him he was rushing to City Hall this morning to sever our ties once and for all? But when I looked into his eyes, so pure and trusting, those words felt like daggers lodged in my throat. I couldn’t say a thing.

"Ethan..." My voice was dry, trembling with an emotion I didn't even recognize. I instinctively reached out, gently taking his hand, which had just lifted and dropped. His fingers were icy, but when I touched him, they slightly tightened around mine, a gesture of almost instinctive trust.

"You... you were in a little accident," I struggled to find the right words, avoiding his loving, heart-stopping gaze. "Don’t be afraid. The doctor said you’re fine, you just need to rest. The private restaurant... we can go another day, okay?"

He blinked, his long lashes fluttering like butterfly wings, his eyes filled with pure trust and a hint of playful vulnerability. "Okay, I’ll listen to Emily. But... I really missed you." He tightened his grip on my hand, his fingertips unconsciously caressing my knuckles, sending a shiver through me. "Did I sleep for a long time? I dreamt of you... and waking up to see you, it’s so good."

His tone, his eyes, the warmth of his fingers... all of it pierced through the corner of my heart I thought was long dead. That place still held the deepest, most passionate love I once felt for Ethan Grant.

Tears surged unexpectedly, and I quickly lowered my head, trying to hide the emotions threatening to spill over. Was it frustration? Bitterness? Or... an uninvited longing?

"Mm, I... I missed you too." I heard myself answer, my voice barely a whisper. This half-true, half-false reply felt like a key unlocking the door to the unknown abyss I had chosen to walk through.

03

Ethan Grant had become a different person.
No, to be more accurate, he had become the Ethan Grant from seven years ago—the one who loved me passionately, the one who would get anxious just because I furrowed my brow, the one who would go out of his way to find something I casually mentioned I liked, the one who pampered me beyond reason.

He was like a huge, clingy golden retriever. Even though the doctor had advised him to rest, he constantly tried to get out of bed. I gave him a stern look and scolded him, "Ethan Grant, lie down! What if your wound tears open?"
He immediately lay back down obediently, but his deep eyes still looked at me longingly, with a hint of grievance. "Emily, I want to be closer to you... Can you sit here with me?" He patted the small stool the nurse had added to the bed.
I sighed and sat next to him. He immediately grabbed my hand, playing with my fingers, or nuzzling my hand with his cheek like a giant dog seeking comfort. This kind of intimacy was a dream from the past few years. My body stiffened, and the warmth from his touch shot through me like electricity, my heart racing uncontrollably.

"Emily, my head hurts so much. Can you rub it for me?" He frowned, looking so pitiful.
"Emily, the hospital food is awful. I want the porridge you make..."
"Emily, talk to me. I can’t sleep..."

Each time he said "Emily," my heart would skip a beat, and it would also make my heart soften. I was like a programmed robot, massaging his temples, clumsily cooking porridge (God knows how long it had been since I last cooked), sitting by his bed, talking about trivial things. He listened intently, his gaze focused and gentle, as if I were the center of his world.

That gentleness... was like poison wrapped in honey.

But the real obstacles came from all sides.
Jason was the first to notice something was off. When he came in to report on business matters, Ethan Grant waved him off. "Let Emily handle it. I trust her." He looked at me with such trust and dependence. Jason stared at me, shocked, his expression full of confusion. I knew what he was thinking—Was the boss really suffering from amnesia? Or was he... faking it? After all, Jason knew about the divorce papers.

I could only take the files from him, enduring Jason's scrutinizing gaze. Luckily, Ethan Grant had made most of the major decisions before his amnesia, so the remaining tasks were mostly execution. My degree was in finance, and though I hadn’t been directly involved in managing the company in recent years, I had picked up a lot. Handling it wasn’t too difficult. But every time I signed my name, "Emily Shaw," on those documents, it felt like I was branding myself with hot iron.

The bigger problem was Claire Summers.
Claire Summers was Ethan Grant’s first love, and the most ambiguous presence in our marriage during its final years. I had seen them "coincidentally" meet in the garage late at night, received cryptic "checking in" texts from her, and noticed the blurry photo of her side profile on Ethan Grant’s phone lock screen (although it was changed the next day). She was like a thorn, embedded deep in my heart.

News of Ethan Grant’s amnesia couldn’t stay hidden for long. Claire Summers came, holding a large bouquet of vivid red roses, wearing a perfectly tailored white suit, her makeup pristine and her presence alluring.

"Ethan!" She rushed to his bed as soon as she entered, her eyes instantly red, her voice trembling. "You scared me to death! How did this happen? Does it hurt?" She reached out, seemingly wanting to touch Ethan Grant’s face.

Ethan Grant instinctively pulled back, frowning, his eyes filled with unmistakable unfamiliarity and a hint of annoyance at being disturbed. He turned to look at me, his expression questioning. "Emily, who is this?"

My hand holding the water cup tightened, my nails almost digging into my palm. Claire Summers' expression froze in disbelief as she stared at Ethan Grant, then shot me a sharp, venomous glare.

"This is Miss Claire Summers, your... old friend." I tried to keep my voice as calm as possible.

"Claire Summers?" Ethan Grant repeated, his brow furrowing deeper, as if trying to recall something. After a moment, he shook his head. "Sorry, I don’t remember." He turned back to me, his tone as natural as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. "Emily, I want the porridge you make."

Claire Summers’ face turned from red to white, and then to a shade of green. She glared at Ethan Grant, then gave me another furious look, her eyes like daggers. Without saying another word, she slammed the flowers down on the table and stormed out, her heels clicking loudly with anger and frustration.

The room fell silent again. Ethan Grant acted as if nothing had happened, holding my hand and lightly rubbing his thumb along the inside of my wrist, sending a shiver through me. His eyes were clear and innocent. "Emily, she doesn’t seem too happy. Did I say something wrong?"

I looked into his eyes, pure and unguarded, and my heart sank with coldness. He had forgotten Claire Summers, forgotten whatever possible feelings he had for her. This should have been good for me. But why, when I saw Claire Summers leaving, did I feel a deeper sense of fear? Like walking a tightrope over a bottomless abyss.

"No," I heard myself answer, my voice dry, pulling my hand from his, my fingertips cold. "You didn’t say anything wrong. I’ll go check if the porridge is ready."

As I turned toward the small kitchen, I almost felt like collapsing. The obstacles didn’t just come from the outside, but from within me. Looking into his trusting, dependent eyes, feeling his regained tenderness, my guilt was growing like creeping vines, suffocating me. I was exploiting his vulnerability, deceiving a patient. This sweet torment gnawed at my conscience every second.

Even worse, I realized I was sinking deeper. Sinking into his gentle calls, sinking into his focused gaze, sinking into the warmth of his fingers... I was afraid I would forget that this tenderness was based on a huge lie. And lies, eventually, always get exposed.

04

Ethan Grant was discharged from the hospital and returned to the "home" that once belonged to both of us.
This home had already been filled with coldness and distance even before the divorce papers were signed. Most of his things had been moved to another apartment downtown, while mine were packed and stacked in the guest room. Now, in order to preserve the illusion in his memory that "we were very much in love," everything had to return to how it was.

I felt like a bad actress, trying to play the role of a happy wife on an empty stage. I hung his clothes back in the master bedroom closet, placed his razor back in the master bathroom, and filled the coffee machine with his favorite coffee beans... Each task felt like I was reopening a wound that had just started to heal.

He was like a curious child, fascinated by this "home." He pointed to the large abstract painting on the living room wall. "Emily, did we pick this out together? I remember you liked these vibrant colors." — In reality, he had bought it on a whim at an auction three years ago. I had told him I didn’t understand it at the time.

He walked into the study and picked up the only photo we had displayed on the bookshelf—our honeymoon picture. It was taken by the Aegean Sea. He had lifted me in his arms, and I held onto his neck, laughing freely. The sunlight drenched us, as though it could melt everything away. His fingers lightly brushed the photo of my radiant smile, and his gaze softened with such tenderness, it almost made me melt. "Emily, let’s go back to Greece, okay? I remember the sunsets there, they were as beautiful as your eyes."

My heart felt like it had been pierced by a needle. After our honeymoon, we never traveled together again. He was always busy—so busy that he even forgot our anniversary.

"Sure," I forced a smile and walked over, gently wrapping my arms around his waist from behind, pressing my face to his broad back. His clean cedarwood scent mixed with the faint scent of medicine—this was the smell I had once longed for. Holding him now, feeling the warmth of his body and the beat of his heart, I only felt a rising sense of panic. "Once you're feeling better, we’ll go." This hug was both a performance and a small source of warmth that helped me keep up the act.

His body stiffened for a moment, then relaxed. His large hand covered the one I had around his waist, holding it tightly. He turned to face me, lowering his head, his forehead resting against mine. His warm breath brushed against my face as his eyes, deep as a whirlpool, gazed into mine. "Emily, it feels like I had a really long dream... In it, I think... I lost you. Now that I’m awake, it feels so good to know you’re still here." His voice was low and magnetic, filled with the relief of having survived and the preciousness of having me back.

His lips were so close I could feel the heat radiating from them. My heart pounded like a drum, threatening to break out of my chest. In the past few years, we hadn’t even shared a half-hearted goodnight kiss. Now, the affection and desire in his eyes were both familiar and foreign—like sparks igniting a long-dormant fire deep inside me.

Just as his lips were about to land on mine, I turned my face away suddenly. His kiss lightly grazed my cheek.

"What's wrong, Emily?" He looked surprised, his eyes filled with hurt.

"You... you still have a head injury. You shouldn’t get too excited." I gave a clumsy excuse, quickly pushing him away and stepping back, creating some space between us. The spot on my cheek where his breath had passed burned with warmth.

He paused for a moment, then chuckled softly, his eyes filled with affection and understanding. "Shy? My Emily is still so easy to embarrass." He reached up and gently stroked my flushed cheek with his fingertip, his touch as delicate as if handling a priceless treasure. "Okay, I’ll listen to my wife and rest more."

The word "wife" hit me like a heavy stone, stirring up a thousand emotions. I almost fled the room, rushing into the kitchen, turning on the faucet, and repeatedly splashing cold water on my face, trying to cool the sudden heat rising from within... and the desire I shouldn’t have felt.

I was trying so hard to play the role of his "Emily," trying to maintain this fragile illusion of happiness. I clumsily made him breakfast the way I used to seven years ago (though the eggs got burnt), brewed him coffee (the temperature was always off), and sat on the couch with him at night watching those soap operas he used to mock (I almost fell asleep). He enjoyed it all, his eyes filled with love and satisfaction, almost overflowing.

He would wake up in the morning and the first thing he would do is pull me into his arms, resting his chin on my head, sighing with contentment. At the dinner table, he’d put all my favorite dishes in my bowl, watching me eat, then smiling like a child who’d just received a reward.

Each time he came closer, each time he showed affection, each time he expressed his love without reservation, it was like a double-edged sword. One side cut away at my guilt, while the other left deeper marks on my softest spot. I was drowning in this stolen tenderness, yet the thought of "this is all a lie" tortured me to the point of sleeplessness.

I desperately tried to hold onto something, even if just a moment of false warmth, to fill the immense, cold emptiness that had been my marriage for the past few years. I knew it was selfish, it was deceitful, but I felt like a dying traveler in the desert, knowing the mirage before me, but still unable to stop myself from running toward it.

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