The Weight of Seven Years

POV: Clayton

I watched her sleep, my back against the doorframe of our bedroom. This was the hardest part. The silence after the "reset" was always heavy, like the air before a tropical storm hits the North Shore.

She looked nineteen. In the soft light of the Hanalei morning, the stress lines on her forehead smoothed out, and for a second, I could almost pretend that when she opened her eyes, she’d reach for me. She’d murmur my name and complain about the sunlight.

But I knew better.

I looked down at my hands. They were steady, but my chest felt like it had been hollowed out with a rusted spoon. Every time this happened, a part of me stayed behind in that "blue tent" of her memory. I was twenty-eight, but in her eyes, I was a stranger—a "hot guy" she didn't know, a husband she hadn't chosen yet.

I walked into the kitchen, the marble countertops cold under my touch. This house—the one we’d spent three years saving for, the one she’d picked out because of the wrap-around porch—was just a museum of forgotten moments to her now.

I prepped the tray. Tea, two sugars, and sourdough toast with the crusts cut off. The eighteen-year-old Zia hated crusts. The twenty-five-year-old Zia loved them. I cut them off anyway. I had to start where she was, not where I wanted her to be.

When I pushed the door open, she was standing in front of the full-length mirror. She looked small. Fragile. She was staring at her own reflection like it was a haunted painting.

"You're twenty-five, Zia," I heard her whisper.

The sound of her own name coming out of her mouth like a question killed me. I cleared my throat, making sure I didn't startle her. I’d learned the hard way that when she feels eighteen, she’s skittish. She’s a flight risk.

"You're awake," I said, my voice sounding more grounded than I felt. I set the tray down, keeping my movements slow. "Dr. Clue said you might be groggy. How’s your head?"

She stayed near the mirror, her eyes wide and searching. "It feels like it’s full of cotton. Clayton... I looked in the mirror. I don't... I don't recognize that woman."

I took a step toward her, then forced myself to stop. My every instinct screamed to pull her into my arms, to bury my face in her neck and tell her I was sorry I couldn't fix her brain. But to her, I was just a man she’d punched in the face yesterday.

"That woman is the strongest person I've ever known," I said, my voice thick. I clenched my fist at my side so she wouldn't see the tremor. "She’s the one who built this life with me."

"But I don't remember building it!" she burst out. The panic was rising in her voice, that high-pitched eighteen-year-old fear. "To me, yesterday I was celebrating my birthday with my parents. Today, you're telling me they've been dead for years... I’m living in a stranger’s body, in a stranger’s house, with a stranger!"

Stranger. The word hit harder than the punch to my jaw ever could.

"I know," I said, and I meant it. I knew the grief she hadn't felt yet. I knew the brother she was currently missing. "And I’m going to spend every day helping you find her again. Even if it takes another seven years."

I held out my hand, palm up. An offering. Not a command.

"Come on. I want to show you something. I want to show you the girl who fell in love with a guy who had nothing but a beat-up truck and a dream."

The drive from the hospital to the harbor is short, but every inch of the road feels like a mile. I pull the truck onto the back dirt road, the tires crunching over dried mud and salt-crusted gravel. We park in the gap between a few rusted-out locals' rigs and a rental Jeep.

I hop out and walk around to her side. When I open the door, she looks at my hand for a long second—calculating the risk—before she lets me guide her out. We walk toward the jagged line of rocks where the harbor meets the open sea. To our left, the lights of Duke’s are beginning to flicker on, and the massive hotel looms like a silent giant over the palms.

I find our spot. A flat-topped volcanic rock that has held our weight a hundred times before. I sit first, then reach back to help her up. To my surprise, she doesn't flinch. She lets me hoist her up beside me.

"This is it," I say, looking out at the turquoise water fading into the evening navy. "This is where we first met."

She looks around, her brow furrowed. "Here? On a pile of rocks?"

"You were here with some friends you’d made at the hostel. You were sitting right where you are now, smoking weed and just letting the breeze hit you. You looked like you didn't have a single care in the world."

Zia’s head snaps toward me, her eyes wide. "I smoked weed?" She lets out a startled, breathless laugh. "Are you serious? My mom would have killed me!"

I can’t help it. A genuine laugh breaks through the heaviness in my chest. "Yeah, you were a rebel, Zia. You don't really do it anymore—not like you used to. Every now and then, we’d go up to a cabin in Koke’e with friends, get a fire going, and just let loose."

Her expression softens into something like wonder. It’s the first time today she hasn't looked at me with suspicion.

"I knew the second I saw you that I wanted to know you," I continued, my voice dropping. "But we were just friends at first. To be honest, I didn't think a 'relationship' was even on the table. I thought I was gay before I met you."

I feel her hand twitch in mine. I hold my breath, watching her profile closely. I'm looking for a flinch, for disgust, for the eighteen-year-old judgment of a girl from a different time.

"Turns out," I say quietly, "I was bisexual. I just hadn't met the person who made me realize it yet."

She doesn't pull away. Instead, she looks at our joined hands, her thumb grazing my knuckles. "How did I change your mind? Or—not change your mind, but..."

"I know what you mean, babe," I interrupt gently. "It wasn’t about changing a mind. It was a realization that my heart loves the soul, not the gender. It was just... you."

Zia nods slowly, a small, thoughtful hum vibrating in her throat. The relief that washes over me is so physical I feel lightheaded. She accepts it. Even without her memories, the core of who she is—that open, accepting spirit—is still there.

"Zia," I say, turning to face her fully. "It usually takes about a week for the 'reset' to fade and for your memories to come back. But until they do, I want to bring you to the pinnacles. One location a day. Every place that meant something to us, I want to show it to you. Is that... would that be okay?"

She looks at the ocean, then back at me, her eyes searching mine for the man she can't remember loving.

"One day at a time," she whispers.