My Husband Pretended to Forget Me for Seven Years

The penthouse smells like disinfectant and something sour I can't quite place. I've scrubbed every surface twice today, but the scent clings to the air like a ghost.

Carson sits in his leather armchair by the window, staring at the Manhattan skyline with that vacant expression I've memorized over seven years. The late afternoon sun cuts across his face, highlighting the sharp line of his jaw. He's only thirty-two, but sometimes I catch myself searching for gray in his dark hair, some physical proof of the disease eating away at his mind.

"Carson?" I set the dinner tray on the side table. Roasted chicken, mashed potatoes—soft foods he can manage without choking. "It's time to eat."

He doesn't turn. His fingers drum against the armrest in a rhythm that might be random or might be something he's forgotten he once knew.

I kneel beside the chair, my knees protesting. Twenty-nine years old, and my body feels ancient. "Honey, you need to eat something."

His eyes slide toward me, unfocused. "Who are you?"

The question lands like it always does—a small knife between my ribs. "I'm Aurelia. Your wife."

"Wife." He tests the word, his brow furrowing. Then his hand shoots out, knocking the water glass off the tray. It shatters against the hardwood, and I'm already moving, already reaching for the towel I keep tucked in my pocket for moments exactly like this.

"It's okay." My voice stays level, soothing. I've perfected this tone—the one that never cracks, never reveals the exhaustion pressing down on my shoulders like a physical weight. "Accidents happen."

I'm on my hands and knees, picking up glass shards, when he speaks again.

"I don't know you."

"I know." The words taste like ash. "But I know you. That's enough."

It takes twenty minutes to clean the mess, change his shirt where water splashed, and coax him to eat half the chicken. He chews slowly, mechanically, while I sit on the ottoman and watch. Making sure he swallows. Making sure he's still here, even if he doesn't know where here is anymore.

The neurologist's words from seven years ago still echo in my head: *Early-onset Alzheimer's. Aggressive progression. He'll need full-time care within months.* We'd been married three weeks.

Three weeks of being Mrs. Carson Webb before I became his nurse.

"I need to run to the pharmacy," I tell him once he's finished eating. "Your prescription is ready. I'll be back in thirty minutes."

He's already drifted away, his gaze returning to the window.

I grab my purse and coat, pausing at the door to look back. He's silhouetted against the dying light, perfectly still. Beautiful and unreachable.

The pharmacy is six blocks away. I could have it delivered, but I need these small escapes—twenty minutes of walking through the city, pretending I'm someone else. Someone whose husband remembers her name.

I'm back in twenty-five minutes, prescription bag in hand. The penthouse is quiet when I enter. Too quiet.

Carson isn't in his chair.

My