2.6 | Forget Me Not ✓

+6 || iris germanica

A/N

Hey, so, fun fact: the process of writing this story was entirely unlike anything I've ever done before. You might already realise this, but the chapters are numbered chronologically. And they were also written chronologically—I wrote all the chapters that took place in the past first, followed by the ones in the present.

However, the past and present chapters are also intricately linked—both by their chapter titles and by their recurring themes. So, for instance, in both iris germanica chapters, you'll find that they centre around the mystery of Dylan's tattoo, despite the fact that one takes place in the past, and the other in the present.

Just, you know, food for thought. Happy reading, and thank you for sticking with me! I know many of you are already with me on Killer Instinct, but I really appreciate those of you who are still here with this story.

x Noelle

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+ 6

i r i s g e r m a n i c a

For hope.

(now: +6)

AS SHE REACHES the room, a wave of uncertainty fills her. Morgan had been more than vague on the other end of the line when she'd called. Something about Dylan wanting to meet with her as soon as she's able to.

She doesn't know if that's a good or bad thing. She does so hate surprises.

For a moment, she falters, with one hand on the doorknob. She hasn't been to the hospital for three weeks, nor has she heard from Dylan until now. His family has given her regular updates, but nothing about their news remotely suggests that he's even thought about her, much less remembered her.

She doesn't want to get her hopes up, only to have them fall apart with the bitter taste of reality.

"Hey." The familiar voice comes from behind her, and she whirls around. Dylan is several feet away, in a wheelchair pushed by a nurse who isn't Flo. He glances back at the nurse and says, "It's okay, I can wheel myself in from here."

The nurse nods and heads off, leaving an awkward silence in her wake. Emma shifts on her feet; feeling terribly out of her depth. She's not sure what kind of mercurial mood he's in today, and the last thing she wants is for things to end on a sour note the way it had before.

"Hi," she says at last.

"Have a seat," he tells her, gesturing to the empty bench just outside the room. She hesitates, then slowly settles down on it. He wheels himself a little bit closer, and that's when she realizes what she's been missing.

"You removed your wrist brace."

He nods. "It took more than two weeks for the doctors to take it off. Apparently, I've injured it before so it took longer than they expected to heal."

"Back to back injuries—once in your senior year of high school, and then in freshman year of college," she tells him. "Both times playing football."

"Dad told me the same thing." There's another pause, before he says, unexpectedly, "I'd like to apologise."

Her eyes flicker up to his; hope tight in her chest.

"It's not that I didn't want to believe you guys. You, Mom, Dad, Morgan, my colleagues from work, my newer friends. It's just that..." He runs a hand through his hair, and lets out a slow breath. "When I woke up, I felt very lost and scared. In my head, I was still in high school and everything was perfect. But then I looked into the mirror, and saw this much older guy staring back at me, and I—I knew something didn't fit, but I didn't know what. And then people would come into my room, one after another, and talk to me as if they knew me their whole lives. But to me, they're all just strangers. Almost everyone apart from my family was a stranger, except for Flo, so I believed her because, at least, what she said made sense."

"What did she tell you?" Emma asks quietly.

"All she says is that she still cares a lot about me, even after all these years. In my memory, she's my girlfriend so I call her that, and she doesn't ever say that she's not, either. But she's really not, is she? Otherwise I wouldn't have this."

He turns his right hand with his palm faced up. The letters—emma—are still there, indelible ink on his skin, unaffected by the accident and his amnesia. Even if his mind can't remember, and his heart won't remember, his body will. She is etched on his skin, within his cells, between his veins.

Unable to stop herself, she leans forward and, with a shaking hand, traces the word on his wrist. Tears rise to her eyes, and she swallows hard. This is like waiting for rain after a long drought, and it has finally come.

Even if it's only a drizzle, she'll take it.

She starts to pull away, but he catches her hand. His eyes rove her features; a flicker of curiosity on his face. He's studying her, she realizes. To him, she's a stranger that he's looking at properly for the first time.

"Emma," he breathes, quiet and wondering, "who are you?" His fingers curl around hers in a steady grip—where before he was her lifeline, now, she is his. He pulls her a little closer and she follows, right to the edge of her seat, so that her knees brush his. His gaze is still magnetic, drawing her in, drowning her deep. She can't look away. "Tell me about yourself."

Her lips finally lift into a small smile. This is the first step. "What would you like to know?"

He opens his mouth to respond, but a voice cuts in right at that moment. "Dylan? What're you two doing?" Emma glances to the left; her heart sinking.

It's Flo.