2.6 | Forget Me Not ✓

+5 || rosa

"What came after?" Dylan asks, plain confusion in his voice.

"You two broke up," Emma declares, at the same time as Flo says, "Nothing." There's a moment's pause as Dylan looks between the two of them, like a poor spectator lost in an unwinnable tennis match, before Emma repeats, in disbelief, "Nothing?"

Flo averts her eyes.

A surge of anger rises within Emma, too strong to stop, and she turns back to Dylan. "She's lying to you—"

"That was—" Flo starts, but Emma ignores her.

"She's obviously taking advantage of the state you're in and lying to you. She knows that you remember her, and that you'll believe anything she tells you, and that's why she won't tell you the truth—"

"Don't talk like that about Flo," Dylan cuts in, his voice sharp. "When I woke up, everyone was telling me different versions of my life, including you. Everytime I had a visitor, they told me something new about myself that I'd never known before until my life looked like this huge, jumbled mess. Flo was the only one who told me things I could remember, so if you don't mind, I'm choosing to believe her."

Emma lets out an incredulous laugh. "So you'd rather believe the words of one person, instead of everyone else's?"

"Yes, because Flo's my girlfriend."

"She's not your girlfriend!" Emma's voice rises in frustration, and Dylan's eyes narrow. He starts to get up, tugging on the drip attached to his arm, but Flo quickly pushes him back down and readjusts the tubes.

"You really shouldn't upset him like that," she tells Emma. "He'll only get hurt." Emma opens her mouth, ready to argue, but Flo looks down when her pager beeps. "I have to get back to work," she says to Dylan. "Will you be okay?"

He sighs and runs his uninjured hand through his hair. "I'll be fine. Just take her out with you."

Emma frowns. "But—"

"You should leave," Flo tells her calmly. "Come on."

Emma stares at Dylan, then Flo, and back at Dylan once more. But neither of them seem willing to meet her gaze or back down. With a frustrated huff, she grabs her bag and the jacket she'd meant to leave him, and storms out of the room. As soon as the door shuts behind them, she whirls around on Flo. "You won't be able to get away with this."

"Maybe," Flo accedes. "But, until then, I'm still the one he loves."

She walks off without a backward glance, and Emma stares at her departing figure, too angry to think of a parting retort. How did things come to this? Was it her fault for not staying by Dylan's side to remind him of her existence? But then, even if she did, what use would that be? She could swear to the moon and back that she was his girlfriend, and he still wouldn't believe her, because he didn't remember her.

And it wasn't even out of character for him to act like this. Even before the accident, Dylan never wavered or faltered. He stuck staunchly to the things he believed in, even when the whole world said otherwise.

The only difference then, was that he believed in her.

If I can't make him believe me... A thought suddenly comes to her mind and she reaches for the doorknob. How hadn't she thought of this before? If I can't make him believe me, he'll have to believe himself.

"What're you doing back here?" Dylan asks when she steps back into the room. His eyes narrow and he starts to reach for the emergency button. "I told you to leave."

She walks right up to him and drops his jacket down on the dresser. "I didn't want to rush you before, because I know you're still recuperating," she says, ignoring his orders. "But your mom told me that you'll be able to remove your bandages in two weeks."

"What does that have to do—"

"When you remove your wrist brace, you'll know which one of us is lying—Flo or I."

He blinks, then stares down at his right hand, where the brace is covered all the way up to his thumb, and down his forearm. He's had a bad fracture there, and she almost kicks herself for not thinking of it sooner.

This is the only proof he really needs.

"What's on my wrist?" he asks at last, an equal mix of suspicion and curiosity in his voice.

"Remove the brace," she tells him calmly, "and then you'll find out."

She turns to leave, but his voice stops her. "Wait," he says, reaching for the jacket that she left on the dresser. "You forgot about this."

She meets his gaze squarely. "That's yours."

Without waiting for his reply, she leaves the room. There's no use staying when he doesn't want her around. Until he removes his wrist brace, he'll never willingly be hers.

And even then, maybe not.