I Don't Remember Marrying You

The Husband The hunger woke me at 3:47 AM. Not a gentle nudge, but a deep, gnawing ache that pulled me from dreamless sleep.

The apartment was silent. Too silent. I padded toward the kitchen, my bare feet cold against the hardwood. He was sitting at my table.

A man. Maybe forty. Handsome, in that timeless way that makes you trust someone immediately.

He cradled a cup of tea between his palms, steam curling upward. He smiled when he saw me. Warm. Familiar.

"Who are you?!"

The words tore out of me. His smile faltered. Concern flooded his eyes.

"I'm your husband. Are you okay, darling?"

"I don't have a husband. I've never been married. Get out of my house."

He stood slowly, hands raised.

"Sweetheart, it's me. It's Daniel. We've been married for six years."

His voice cracked.

"You're scaring me."

I backed toward the knife block.

"Check your phone,"

he said softly.

"Please. Just check."

My hands trembled as I unlocked it. The photos. Hundreds of them. Him and me. Smiling. A wedding. Vacations. Christmas mornings.

His arm around my waist in every single one. I scrolled faster. Years of memories I didn't have.

"See?"

He stepped closer.

"It's okay. You probably just had a nightmare."

I looked up at him. And then I saw it. Behind him, on the refrigerator, held by a magnet. A photo of me on my wedding day. Standing alone.

No one beside me. He followed my gaze. His smile returned.

"Oh, darling,"

he whispered.

"You weren't supposed to notice that yet."

The lights went out.