I woke up suddenly, with no slow return to consciousness or gentle blinking as sleep gradually loosened its hold on me.

One second, I was asleep, and the next, my eyes opened and panic shot through my entire body before I even understood why.

Something was wrong.

The room was too bright, my neck hurt, my back ached, and one of my legs had gone almost completely numb. For several seconds, I stared at the unfamiliar ceiling above me, my mind still trapped somewhere between sleep and consciousness as I tried to remember where I was and why I was sitting on a floor instead of lying in my bed.

Then everything came back to me at once. Riley. The hospital. The journals. The drawings. The last few pages. The goodbye notes. My anxiety attack. His hands around mine. My mother calling. The darkness outside his bedroom window.

I sucked in a breath and immediately looked toward the window, only to see pale morning sunlight slipping through the curtains and stretching across Riley's bedroom floor.

"Oh my God," I whispered.

I pushed myself upright too quickly, and pain immediately shot through my neck. I winced and reached up to rub it as another wave of panic moved through me.

It was morning.

Somehow, I had fallen asleep, and I didn't even remember it happening. The last thing I remembered was sitting on the floor with Riley. He had been leaning against the side of his bed, his head resting against the mattress behind him, while I sat across from him. We had been talking quietly until eventually we stopped talking altogether. I remembered my eyes feeling heavy. I remembered telling myself I should stand up and call Mom again. After that, there was nothing.

Mom.

My heart began racing all over again. I hadn't gone home. I had told her I would call when I was ready, and then I had apparently fallen asleep on Riley's bedroom floor and disappeared for the entire night. She was probably terrified. My dad had probably already organized a search party consisting of himself, my sisters, my younger brother, and every police officer within a fifty-mile radius.

I immediately reached for my phone, but before my fingers could touch it, I froze.

Something was holding my other hand.

I looked down.

My heart stopped.

Riley was still holding my hand.

For a moment, I forgot about my phone. I forgot about Mom. I forgot that morning had come at all. Riley was asleep across from me, still leaning against the side of his bed exactly the way he had been before I fell asleep. His head had fallen slightly to one side, his hair messy from sleep. One leg was stretched out in front of him while the other was bent awkwardly at the knee, and he looked painfully uncomfortable.

But I barely noticed any of that.

Because he was still holding my hand.

At some point during the night, his grip had loosened, but he had never completely let go. His fingers were still wrapped around mine, warm and gentle, like even in sleep, some part of him had decided I was something he needed to keep close.

My chest hurt.

It was ridiculous. It was just a hand. People held hands all the time. Friends held hands. Families held hands. Strangers held hands when they were scared. It didn't have to mean anything.

But it meant something to me.

Because Riley used to hold my hand like this. Before the accident, there had been countless nights when one of us fell asleep beside the other. Movie nights. Sleepovers. Long drives. Late conversations that ended somewhere between midnight and morning. I had woken up with my head on his shoulder. He had fallen asleep with his feet across my lap. We had shared blankets and pillows and couches without ever thinking twice about it.

Back then, being close to Riley had been normal.

Now every accidental touch felt like a miracle.

I stared at our hands and imagined what the old Riley would say if he could see me now. He would laugh at me for being so dramatic. He would wake up, catch me staring, and immediately ask if I was writing poetry about his hand.

I could almost hear him.

My throat tightened.

I looked at his face.

He looked peaceful, and somehow that hurt too. After everything we had found in those journals, after all the fear and confusion on his face last night, he finally looked peaceful.

I didn't want to wake him.

I didn't want to move.

I didn't want to do anything that might make him let go.

Then my phone lit up again.

I nearly jumped out of my skin, and the movement made Riley shift slightly in his sleep. I froze and watched him carefully, but he didn't wake up. After waiting several seconds, I carefully reached for my phone with my free hand.

The screen was full of notifications.

My heart immediately started racing again when I saw several texts from Mom.

"Oh no."

I unlocked my phone as quickly as I could with one hand and opened her messages.

The first one had been sent last night.

Willow called me. She said you fell asleep upstairs. Don't worry about coming home tonight. Get some rest.

I stared at it.

Then I read it again.

Willow called her.

My shoulders immediately relaxed.

I scrolled to the next message.

Your dad wanted to come carry you home, but I told him that would probably be slightly dramatic. He disagrees.

A laugh escaped me before I could stop it. I immediately looked at Riley, but he was still asleep.

I looked back at my phone.

The next message had been sent an hour later.

He would like me to clarify that carrying his exhausted daughter home is not dramatic. Apparently it is "fatherhood."

I smiled.

Then I reached the last message.

It had been sent early that morning.

Good morning, sweetheart. I hope you're still sleeping. Willow said she checked on you both before she went to bed and you were okay. Come home whenever you're ready. I love you.

My eyes burned.

I let out a breath I hadn't realized I was holding.

Mom wasn't worried. She knew where I was. Willow had called her. Everything was okay, or as okay as anything could be anymore.

I typed a reply with one hand, telling her I had just woken up and apologizing for not calling again. The typing bubble appeared almost immediately, because of course Mom was already awake. She told me I didn't need to apologize and asked if I was coming home soon.

I looked at Riley.

Then at our hands.

I don't know yet.

Mom's reply came a few seconds later.

Okay. Eat something.

I smiled.

I will.

Another message appeared.

Something that isn't a granola bar.

I rolled my eyes.

Fine.

I mean it.

I know.

Love you.

Love you too.

I locked my phone and placed it carefully beside me.

The room became quiet again.

Morning had transformed Riley's bedroom. The photographs on the wall were touched by sunlight now, tiny pieces of his forgotten life glowing in the early light. Pictures of his family. Pictures of places he had been. Pictures of me.

The brown journal was still lying on the floor.

Closed now.

I didn't remember closing it.

Maybe Riley had. Maybe Willow had come upstairs at some point and seen it there. The thought made my stomach twist, but if she had opened it, she would have known what we knew, and there was no possible way she would have simply left us sleeping on the floor afterward.

So she hadn't read it.

Not yet.

They still didn't know.

I looked at Riley.

He had to tell them. We had talked about that last night. He knew he had to tell them, and I had promised I would stay when he did.

The thought made my stomach hurt.

How were we supposed to walk downstairs and destroy his family's entire understanding of what had happened? How was Riley supposed to look at his mother and tell her the accident that had almost taken her son had never really been an accident? How was he supposed to tell Kai? Lydia? How were they supposed to decide what Milo should know when he was still too young to understand something this terrible?

I closed my eyes.

I didn't want to think about it.

Not yet.

It was too early.

Riley was still sleeping.

For a few more minutes, the truth could stay upstairs.

For a few more minutes, we could stay here.

I looked down at our hands again. His fingers had shifted slightly during the night. My hand was resting against the floor now, and his covered mine, his thumb resting near my knuckles.

I thought about yesterday.

About my panic.

About the moment he reached for me.

He hadn't remembered.

That was the part I couldn't stop thinking about.

Riley didn't remember my anxiety attacks. He didn't remember all the times he had sat with me through them. He didn't remember learning that questions made them worse or that telling me to calm down was useless or that sometimes the only thing that helped was having something warm and steady to hold onto.

He remembered none of it.

But his hands did.

My eyes filled.

"Stupid hands," I whispered.

Riley moved.

I froze.

His eyebrows pulled together slightly, and his head shifted against the bed. I stopped breathing and waited for him to wake up, but his eyes remained closed.

Then his fingers tightened around mine.

My heart completely gave up.

I stared at him.

"Seriously?" I whispered.

Nothing.

He was still asleep.

I looked toward the ceiling.

"This is cruel."

"You talk a lot in the morning."

I nearly screamed.

My head snapped toward him.

Riley's eyes were still closed.

"You're awake?"

"Unfortunately."

"How long have you been awake?"

"One minute."

"You were pretending to sleep?"

"No."

"You answered me." I accused.

"That generally requires consciousness."

I stared at him as his eyes slowly opened.

For one second, neither of us spoke. Then Riley looked down at our hands.

I waited. My entire body became painfully still.

This was it. The moment was over.

He was awake now. He would realize he was holding my hand. He would let go. Maybe he would apologize. Maybe he would look embarrassed. Maybe he would make the moment awkward without meaning to because he didn't understand what it meant to me.

Riley stared at our hands for several seconds before looking at me.

"You called my hands stupid."

My mouth fell open.

"That's what you're concerned about?"

"They didn't do anything."

I laughed. A real laugh.

It surprised both of us.

Riley smiled. Then his smile faded slightly as he looked at our hands again.

"I didn't let go."

It wasn't a question.

"No."

"All night?"

"I guess."

He was quiet.

I waited for him to move.

He didn't.

"Why?" he asked.

My chest tightened. "I don't know."

"You usually know everything about me."

"That is absolutely not true."

"It seems true."

I looked away. "Maybe you were afraid I'd panic again."

"Maybe."

"Maybe you forgot."

"Maybe."

"Maybe your hand has abandonment issues."

He laughed softly. "Could be that."

I smiled.

Then silence settled between us again. This silence was different from last night. Lighter. Not happy, because nothing could be completely happy after what we had learned, but softer.

Riley looked exhausted. His hair was a mess, there were faint shadows beneath his eyes, and he had slept sitting against a bed instead of actually getting into it.

"You know you have a bed," I said.

He looked behind him. "Apparently."

"You could have used it."

"So could you."

"This isn't my house."

"Based on the number of pictures of you on my wall, I'm starting to question that."

I laughed again.

Riley smiled. Then his eyes moved toward the brown journal. Everything changed. The smile disappeared.

The morning became heavy again.

I followed his gaze.

Neither of us spoke for a while. Then Riley looked down at our hands. "We have to tell them."

I swallowed. "Yeah."

"I don't want to."

"I know."

He looked at me. "You said you'd stay."

"I will."

"Even if they hate me?"

My heart broke. "They're not going to hate you."

"You don't know that."

"Yes, I do."

"How?"

"Because I know them."

Riley's eyes dropped. "I don't."

The words were quiet.

I squeezed his hand. It happened before I thought about it. Riley looked down. So did I. For a moment, I wondered if I had crossed some invisible line.

Then he squeezed mine back.

My breath caught.

"They love you," I whispered. "You don't have to remember them to know that."

Riley looked toward the bedroom door.

Downstairs, we could hear movement. Cabinets opening. Footsteps. Milo's voice. The normal sounds of a family waking up.

Riley closed his eyes. "I don't know how to do this."

I looked at him. "Neither do I."

"That's not very reassuring."

"I'm trying to be honest."

He smiled faintly. "Right. You said that."

"Apparently new Riley finds me very unhelpful."

"I'm beginning to understand old Riley."

I rolled my eyes.

He laughed softly.

And there it was again. That strange feeling.

Old Riley.

New Riley.

Sometimes I could tell the difference so clearly it hurt. Other times, like this, the line disappeared. I didn't know which Riley was teasing me.

Maybe both. Maybe neither. Maybe he had always been more than his memories.

We stayed on the floor for a few more minutes. I didn't rush him, and he didn't let go of my hand.

Eventually, the smell of coffee drifted upstairs, followed by something sweet and warm.

Riley breathed in. "Pumpkin?"

I smiled. "Probably."

His face softened.

Another tiny thing. Another piece of familiarity without a memory attached.

He looked toward the door. Then back at me.

"Ready?"

"No."

He laughed quietly. "Me neither."

I started to move but then stopped.

Our hands were still together.

I looked down and Riley followed my gaze. For the first time all morning, I became embarrassed.

"I guess we should..."

"Yeah."

Neither of us moved.

I bit the inside of my cheek.

Riley cleared his throat. "This is awkward."

"It wasn't until you said that!"

"Sorry." He apologized.

"You should be."

He smiled.

Then, slowly, his fingers loosened.

I hated how much it hurt.

His hand slipped away from mine, and cold air touched my palm.

The moment was over.

I looked down quickly and pretended I needed to pick up my phone.

Riley pushed himself to his feet and immediately winced. "Everything hurts."

"You slept on a floor."

"So did you."

"I'm tougher."

"You had an anxiety attack twelve hours ago."

I looked at him.

He froze. "I'm sorry."

I stared at him. "What?"

"I don't know if I'm supposed to mention it."

My heart softened. "You can."

"Okay."

He held out his hand.

I looked at it. "For what?"

"To help you up."

"Oh."

I stared at his hand for one second too long before taking it. He pulled me to my feet. I stumbled slightly because one of my legs was still half asleep, and Riley caught my arm.

"Careful."

The word hurt.

Not badly.

Beautifully.

Because he used to say it all the time.

I looked at him.

"What?" He asked.

"Nothing." I said.

"You do that a lot."

"Do what?"

"Look at me like I said something important when I didn't."

I smiled sadly. "Sometimes you say important things without knowing."

Riley stared at me. Then his eyes moved toward the journal. He bent down and picked it up.

The weight returned to the room.

He held it against his chest.

I watched him.

"Autumn?"

"Yeah?"

"Before we go downstairs..."

I waited.

He looked scared again. "If I can't say it, will you?"

My heart stopped.

I looked at the journal. Then at him.

"Are you sure?"

"No."

I almost smiled.

"But will you?"

I took a breath. "Yeah."

His shoulders relaxed slightly. "Okay."

We walked toward the door.

Riley reached for the handle but then he stopped. I waited. He looked at me. "Thank you for staying."

My throat tightened. "You asked me to."

"No." His voice softened. "I mean before that."

I stared at him.

He looked down at the journal in his hands.

"Before I knew enough to ask."

I couldn't speak so I smiled. Small. Sad. Real. Then Riley opened the door.

The smell of pumpkin and coffee drifted up the stairs. His family waited below, unaware of the truth we were about to bring down with us.

And together, we went downstairs to tell them everything.