Hello Hello! Thank you everyone for your patience. I'm awful at updating and I'm sorry! I hope everyone is having a great weekend!

Unbetaed forever. Ignore the mistakes.

Enjoy this update.


Chapter Six

We live in pieces, but pieces fall apart

There is a draft that passes as his words linger in the air, thick and heavy. The time feels like it's stood still, like gravity has shifted somewhat. It feels like all of her senses are heightened, all of the noise and sound a decibel higher, all of her nerving tingling and shot, and every detail magnified but blurred as her heart thumps loudly in her chest, following a staccato beat. Her tongue feels short and her throat feels dry. She feels everything and nothing all at the same time.

"Cora," she hears him whisper, cutting through the haze brought about by his words. She can see through her peripheral vision that he is attempting to reach for her, and that gives her a start.

"Don't," she snaps, taking a step back. "Don't you fucking dare touch me."

She is not a person who swears, has tried not to all these years, but the words are out of her mouth before she could stop them.

"Cora," he tries again, to cajole her no doubt, but his attempts fall flat as she only glares at him, slapping away quickly the hand he uses to reach over for her.

"You," she growls, low in her throat, her voice dripping of fury, her nose flaring as her anger rises and rises—to the point that she's finding it hard to swallow it back. "You hid this from me? You never thought to tell e that I lost a baby? My baby?"

Robert makes a sound of frustration, or desperation, she couldn't quite tell, probably both. He lifts his hand and rubs it over his face tiredly. "When have I had the time?" he asks, almost pleadingly.

She should understand, she knows, but she can't. She doesn't want to.

"Probably anytime in the past month!" she yells, unable to control the rage that is brewing inside of her. There is time, there is always time.

"You barely look at me, much less talk to me. Let's not even talk about whether or not you trust me. How on earth was I supposed to tell you that you lost our child?" he asks once more, emphasizing on the word 'our'.

He's right, and no, she doesn't know how to respond to that.

"I had the right to know," she says instead, murmuring quietly as she looks away, anger leaving her body replaced with pain and weariness that she feels to her bones. She feels her knees tremble and her legs give out, and she plops down in the bench, tears cascading her cheeks as her tears fall anew. "Everything that has happened to me…I can't remember them anymore. I don't know who I was for the past six years, what has happened…nothing. I needed to know that, you had no right to keep it from me."

The bench shifts to his added weight, when he takes the seat beside her. He takes her hand in his again, and this time she doesn't stop him or wrench them away. Her need for comfort now overrides her need to continue being angry and lash out. Holding on to her anger would only prove to make her more miserable, and with everything that is going on with her life now, that seems to be the last thing she needs: to be even more miserable than she already is.

"It's my life, Robert," she adds in a mumble as sobs rack her already tired body, "It's my life and I can't even remember."

"I'm sorry," he says, his hand coming up to rub her back soothingly, pressing against her flesh, his warmth seeping through her layers of clothing making her shiver involuntarily. "I'm sorry you have to go through this. I'm sorry for your pain."

She cannot say anything, her pain seems to overflow now from her chest, pouring out of her in the form of her tears, and she sniffles, leaning in closer to her as he wraps his arms around her. She feels his lips pressing against her temple again and again, and she lets him, lets him comfort her this way because she feels good being in his arms, feels great being held by him in this way. And so she lets him share the burden, the pain of feeling herself lose her child once more, the child she doesn't even remember.

She doesn't even know if she's grieved her child. And it is her child, her baby, she doesn't remember it right now, but it is hers. Her child. She's carried it in her womb, shared it's life for however brief a time, and it hurts to know that she doesn't remember, won't remember come morning.

He whispers words of comfort to her, against her skin, the soft words flowing smoothly from his lips and they caress her like a gentle breeze, but it is not a balm to her aching soul, not just now. The words slide off and they mean nothing.

She doesn't think she can be comforted.

He should feel elated, happy as she comes into his embrace, albeit unwillingly at the start, but he isn't. She is there, soft and pliant, crying on his shoulder over the child they shared and lost, and he could not find it in himself to be happy, to feel enthused over holding her. Having her in his arms is never a hardship, he loves it, loves holding her so much, but the circumstances in which they'd found themselves in leave very little to be happy about. He feels the pain that radiates off his chest at the sight of her so torn, so in pain and so burdened by the memory she's forgotten—a very important memory. She falls apart in his arms, and he cannot do anything about it, cannot say anything to make the pain go away. He cannot, and in fact, no one really can.

Even now, as he holds her and lets her cry over and over and over what she has already cried over in the past, he feels the dull throbbing in his heart. And he feels like he is being stabbed, repeatedly, breaking him down.

But he cannot break down now, not when she's counting on him to be her pillar of strength. She hasn't explicitly asked, but he can feel it, can feel her body sag against his, seeking comfort for the pain that bleeds through her very being. She is a mother, through and through, and though she cannot remember it now, and though it had been a brief time, she has been one, and finding out what she's found out know—well, the pain of that never really goes away. So, he cannot, under any circumstances, fall apart now.

She sniffs and lifts her head from his chest and looks at him brokenly. He pushes back the wisps of hair that fell on her forehead.

"You know, you told me before that at least now, you think that our baby didn't feel any more pain," he tells her softly, remembering her saying that before when she's found him sequestered in a room, crying for the loss of his child. "I know it might not be so much a consolation—," he pauses as she nods at him and bites her lip, definitely mulling it over all the while looking down at her lap.

"Was it…" the words fall from her lips and trail off into the chilly air. She shivers and he has the urge to pull her closer, but he resists, tightens his fist, instead. But she seems to move a bit closer to him, trying to stave off the chill through the heat radiating off of him.

"It was a boy," he whispers, letting the word sink in, remembering that day in the hospital when Cora had a scan and they found out it was a boy. They had been very excited then, and they held each other tightly that night, dreaming of the future, so blissfully unaware of how abruptly things would change.

His words brings her to tears once more, and the sob that escapes her lips makes his heart jump and then break, and he feels so helpless because he isn't even sure how to comfort her. If he's honest, he hasn't quite moved on from it yet, either, and seeing her like this, watching her find out for the first time once more, it reawakens the old pain and reopens the old wounds he thought he'd been able to heal. He pulls her to him and lets her sob in his chest once more, like he's done before, like he will always do for her.

There is no life where he won't be here for her, never a life where he won't love her this much, like this, because there is really no world where he would exist where he isn't with her, loving her with everything that he has.

It takes a long while before her tears abate, before she feels like she's dried out of tears. The pain is there, dull and throbbing but she doesn't think she can cry anymore. She lets her breathing even by taking deep, shuddering breaths. She looks up at him and heaves a watery sigh.

"I'm sorry," she whispers, her voice husky. "I should have never snapped at you." She feels so shameful for her actions, so remorseful for the pain she's caused him, and he looks so pained.

"And I'm sorry for not telling you," he says, reaching out to hold her hand. She lets him. Her hands feel as cold as ice, and his warmth is bringing back to hers. "We should have told you. It was your life, we didn't have the right to keep it from you."

"You're right though," she disagrees softly, sounding defeated. "It doesn't matter. I won't remember in the morning."

The pain in her chest threatens to swallow her whole, but she can't do anything. He doesn't say anything either. They both know it. Nothing is going to make her feel better.

Silence surrounds them as they sit together in her little nook, letting the events of the day sink into them. His hand remains holding hers, and they just sit there, basking in being together, in sharing the pain they both feel.

"Are you warm enough still?" he asks softy, turning to her, breaking the silence. The wind just got a bit colder.

But the heat that radiates of off him makes her feel warm. She shakes her head in the affirmative. "I am," she says with a small smile. It isn't forced, she freely gives it to him, even if it's small and shy, tentative. "I am when you're holding my hand."

He smiles back at her then, and lets the silence envelope them again. It's been a long day and surely, both of them are exhausted not only physically but also mentally and emotionally, and they deserve a break, a rest from the long emotional roller coaster of a day. She can feel weariness creeping to her bones now.

She pulls away just as a draft passes them by and makes her shiver. She looks over at him and sighs. "I think I might go for a nap," she tells him as she stands up,

He nods at her and stands up alongside her. He offers her his hand and smiles when she takes it. They enter the room, finding an anxious Martha waiting for them, at Cora's nod, her mother sighs and nods as well before she disappears into her room. Robert leads Cora to the bedroom they used to share, and dropping a kiss into her cheek, he goes, leaving her watching his retreating back worriedly.

Robert is never the one to wear his heart out on his sleeves, he doesn't show his emotions, cannot cry in front of anyone—he is afraid that it might make him weak. It has only been Cora who had been able to draw out emotions from with a carefully placed hand on his arm, a soothing caress up and down her back, her palm against his cheek, or her lips upon his brow. She has never failed to let him feel freely, mostly because she tends to share his burden and lets him know that she is there, she won't be going anywhere.

He misses that.

He sighs as he closes the door to the study, the thud sounding louder than the sob that escapes his lips. He's a wreck, a wreck that he can no longer fix. He feels the pain of losing his child tear into him anew, and now it's even worse because he feels like he is losing the woman he loves as well.

He feels alone, feels vulnerable and breakable under the pain.

With wobbling knees, he walks towards the window, searches the garden that can be looked over in this room. He has imagined watching their child from here, as it played with its mother, and he'd imagined Cora's face as she chases after the tot, and he couldn't feel but feel like a vise is gripping his heart. It's hard, so painful and difficult and he isn't entirely sure how he had been able to get through it the first time.

No, he knows, he'd had her by his side then.

He balls his hands into fists as tears course down his cheeks. How is he so emotional over a child he's never been able to hold? Their boy had been too little, too young then that it hadn't survived. At four and a half months, it hadn't been viable to live outside of its mother. And for the longest time Cora had blamed herself over the loss of their child. She'd been stressed, had been depressed over the death of her father, and one day when she'd stepped out of the shower, she'd slipped and had a miscarriage. She'd blamed herself.

He blamed himself.

He should have been there for her, protecting her, helping her.

But they had healed from those wounds—it had been an accident that neither of them had wanted or foresaw, and they had to let go of the pain and the guilt or let it eat the alive.

Remembering it now, though, it reminds him that the wounds might have healed, but they've left scars behind, enough marks to know that the pain would last forever.

The sound of the door opening breaks his reverie and he hears footsteps coming towards him. Before he could reach up to wipe the traces of his tears, he feels soft fingers brushing them away and he looks down to find his wife standing in front of him, staring up at him with watery eyes. Her lips are quivering and her own hands are shaking as she cups his cheek. He couldn't help himself, he goes and nips her by the waist, pulling her closer to him and sobbing his heart out.

"I'm so sorry," he mumbles over and over, apologizing for their child, and this situation, and his inability to hold it together for her. The pain is fresh and deep, and he feels like a cad to be digging this up from the dredges—no matter how unanticipated it had been.

"Robert," she husks against his chest, her words muffled by the soft fabric of his shirt, "I'm sorry too."

But she needs not apologize. None of this is her fault.

"You'd have been a terrific mother, Cora," he whispers against her hair as his tears keep falling. He sniffs, holding her closer to him.

She smiles softly. "You'd have been a great father," she tells him as she buries her head against his chest even further. "We'd have loved our baby so much."

"We do," Robert says. "I know you don't remember, but we do, Cora, we do."

She nods, she feels it too, it seems. She feels love for the baby they shared and lost, and his faith strengthens, even if she doesn't remember, they will find their way back to each other. He just knows it.

The rest of the weeks pass by in a blur, in rather the same fashion. But now, Cora has less much of the freak outs she used to have. Having the journal helped her. She's put on a sticky note on the cover of the journals saying Read this in her loopy hand writing. After she reads them in the morning, she becomes more receptive to her mother's explanations and more receptive to her husband even if she is a bit hesitant.

This week, they are to bring her to her first appointment to her therapist. They are going to try and condition that part of her brain to be more amenable to storing new memories. Cora had readily agreed when Robert and Martha had discusses it with her during dinner, and she'd been excited to go, excited to revive and remember that part of her she's lost.

It is not to say that she isn't nervous—she is, more than just a little in fact. But mother's hand grasps hers reassuringly and she tries to fortify herself, telling herself that she needs this. Her husband had been supportive as well, trying to let her have as much space as she wanted, needed. There are days when she is an absolute bear, and she's aware of that, but he has never lost his patience. It makes her think that she doesn't deserve him, doesn't deserve this much devotion, because while she might feel a pull towards him, she realizes as the time passes by that she doesn't quite reciprocate his feelings. She isn't quite there yet.

She is well aware of the moment she's shared with him the past few weeks, she doesn't remember them, but her journal reminds her, and so does her mother. And she is well aware of the feelings he harbors for her, the same feelings she might have once felt for him, too, they are married after all. But right now, now that she can't remember much about her past and is solely relying on the bits and pieces she's gotten from her journals—she can't tell that she is one hundred percent sure she's right there with him.

It's not something she's told anyone, not really. And it isn't something she feels comfortable ever telling anyone either, to be honest. So she keeps to herself and tries to put as much distance as she can between them. He is understanding, gives her what she needs even as she could see the pain that crosses his face when she chooses her mother's company over his. Quietly, he'd nod and then leave them, and as soon as he's out of earshot, Martha would scold her, but there isn't much that she could do about it.

She cannot very well order her heart to love a man she doesn't remember, doesn't know.

She is pulling away. She is pulling away, he knows it, but he cannot do anything about it. He cannot force her to remember, to feel the same way, to keep holding on, because he knows that he isn't going to be able to live with himself knowing that he's forced her to stay with him.

But god, he cannot honestly live in a life where she isn't his to love, where he isn't hers to love.

He's torn between fighting for her and letting her go if and when it comes down to it and that is what she wishes.

He has gone and called his sister so many times, asking her advice over this, and she had been telling him one thing: be patient. But a heart so torn can only be patient for long before it is breaking, confused and hanging by a thread of the unknown.

"Robert?" he hears someone say, ridding him of his thoughts and he looks to his left to find his mother-in-law staring at him. "You're going to have to turn left on the next corner."

Oh, and yes, he needs to focus.

He nods without a word and turns on the next corner. The hospital comes up in his view and he breathes out shakily, feeling more nervous than Cora probably does. He parks the car on the lot and they all pile out of the vehicle without a word.

The nurse greets them when they walk in, leading them to the right room after a few inquiries. He watches Cora pensively, watches as she clings to her mother quietly, watches her bite her lip again and again, knowing she's nervous as all hell, and wishing so much that he could be the one to comfort her, but he cannot. He cannot because she doesn't seem to want him to.

Pushing the door open, they walk into Cora's therapist's office. They are greeted by her doctor, a woman who is probably around their age, with a kind smile and almond eyes that are alight with something akin to kindness. She beckons them to sit on the empty chairs in front of her desk.

"Good morning," she greets pleasantly, her smile soft. "I'm Phyllis Baxter, I'm assuming that you are Cora Crawley." She turns to Cora who is sitting next to her mother, fidgeting.

Cora nods. "It's a pleasure to meet you," Cora says with a trembling smile.

"And you must be Mr. Crawley," Dr. Baxter says turning to him, and he nods, extending his hand, which she shakes before she turns to Martha, "And Mrs. Levinson, her mum?" Martha nods and shakes her hand. Phyllis Baxter sits up straighter. "Alright, I'm going to need Mrs. Crawley on her own. We're going to start with a bit of talk for now. It won't take as long as her the regular sessions where we'd have the actual exercises but I thought it would be nice if we got to know each other on this session, so it'd be more comfortable on the next ones." She turns to Cora with a smile. "Are you agreeable to that, Mrs. Crawley?"

Cora nods meekly, and looks at her mother for reassurance. Martha nods and squeezes her daughter's hand. Robert sits there, feeling absolutely helpless.

"Alright then," Phyllis Baxter says, smiling at him and Martha before the two excuses themselves and takes their leave.

When the door closes, Robert heaves a sigh. There isn't anything he could do now but wait.

Cora bites her lips nervously as her therapist looks at her with a soft, sympathetic smile. She fiddles with her thumbs and waits for the unknown.

"How are you feeling, Mrs. Crawley?" Phyllis asks, watching her.

Cora shrugs. "Nervous," she admits as she licks her dry lips and breathes deeply. She is nervous. God, she's shaking.

"There is nothing to be nervous of, Cora—Cora, may I call you that?" Phyllis asks and Cora nods. "Good, then you may call me Phyllis. So, how have you been the past few days?"

Cora shrugs once more. She doesn't know. "I don't really remember," she points out, looking up at her therapist. "I uh—you must know about my condition."

Phyllis nods. "Yes, I do," she replies, leaning forward to be a bit closer to Cora. "How does that make you feel?"

Cora looks down again and tries to stop her tears from flowing. "I don't know," she confesses. She doesn't really. There are far too much emotions running through her about her situation that she just doesn't know anymore. "I'm scared and frustrated and furious."

"Furious?" Phyllis asks cautiously. "Why are you furious?"

Cora snorts. "Who wouldn't be?" she asks ironically. "I'm trapped in a limbo where I don't remember my past but I cannot live in the present either because I sleep, and then bam, I wake without any memories. It makes me furious because I know how much pain I'm causing to everyone, how inconvenient, and that makes me so damn angry because this is my life and I cannot seem to take control of it." Angry, hot tears have started rolling down her cheeks at this point and she reaches up to wipe them away. "It doesn't feel like my life anymore." She sniffs and looks away. "And I don't want to keep hurting everyone anymore."

"Do you mean your husband?" Phyllis asks boldly and Cora snaps her head to look at her therapist, "Because I imagine it is as hard for him as it is for you."

Cora nods slowly. That is true. "I can't love him the way he loves me, the way he remembers me loving him," she admits. "But I cannot tell him that."

"Why not?" Phyllis asks, sounding genuinely curious.

Cora looks at her sharply. "How on earth am I going to tell him that the woman he's once loved is gone? Sure she comes to visit, for the most part, I don't even know where she's gone."

"Comes to visit?" A look of confusion crosses her therapist's eyes.

"Sometimes, I feel something…like a pull, towards him, I know somewhere in there, his Cora is in there. But most days, I feel like I cannot get away from him far enough…because I don't know. I don't feel like I'm the woman he wishes I am. I don't feel like I'm the Cora he's lost, because I don't remember that Cora."

"Maybe you should tell him that," Phyllis says softly.

Cora shakes her head and groans. She wishes she could. She really, really does.


A/N: I know it isn't so long, but I'm really all dried out from all the things we have to finish in Uni, so I apologize. I promise we're heading somewhere. So just sit back and hold on, there is a plot in there somewhere haha. I'm really sorry for this crapola of a chapter. I have no excuse other than exhaustion, but i hope it tides you over for a little while. And I promise I'll try to churn out a better update next time. Thanks for reading and tell me what you think!