Subconsciously, my breath hitches as she twists the doorknob.

A string of fairy lights hangs on the wall above the bed, bright and twinkling, and a diffuser sits on the nightstand, emitting wafts of lavender, making me relax my shoulders. There’s a desk in the corner, a surge of intrigue sparking in my chest at the sight of the laptop on the surface, as it’s likely to be a treasure trove of valuable information. Across from the bed, a myriad of photos are stuck to the wall, snapshots of someone else’s life.

The room is beautiful, but it doesn’t feel like it’s mine.

Any hope of my memory making a reappearance is rapidly snuffed out, and disappointment presses heavily against the backs of my eyelids. “It’s nice.”

“I’ll let you have some privacy,” she offers.

“Thanks, Sofia.” It’s the first time I’ve addressed her by name, and I don’t realize the magnitude of my mistake until I see the look on her face. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s all right,” she says, her voice wavering. “I’ll be downstairs if you need anything.”

She leaves the room in a rush. I gravitate to the wall of photos, trying to move past the interaction. The level of awkwardness has apparently been upped now that we’re trapped in a house together, and it’s hard to imagine a time when it won’t feel this way.

There are so many pictures it’s hard to focus on one at a time. The majority of them have been taken in crowded living rooms. I’ve usually got a red Solo cup in hand, surrounded by the same handful of people—a beautiful blond with a dazzling smile, a curly-haired boy most often showing me some form of affection, and a stocky guy wearing a letterman jacket and a goofy grin.

A slew of faces with no memories attached to them. I don’t know if I can become the person in the pictures.

A knock sounds on my door, startling me.

“Come in,” I call, taking a seat on the bed.

The door clicks open slowly, and Parker pokes his head inside. He sees the look on my face and hovers in the doorway, sticking his hands in his pockets.

“Hey.” He greets me.

“Hey,” I respond evenly.

He takes my greeting as an invitation to enter the room, then sits on the bed a short distance away. “How are you doing?”

“You know, I’ve been asked that question so many times, and I don’t think I have an answer.” A beat of silence hangs between us. “Even if I did, I don’t think I’d be able to put it into words.”

“I can’t even imagine.”

“Do we know each other well?”

“We do. You’re one of my closest friends.”

“Is that really me?” I gesture to the wall of photos with my chin.