I have taken a few creative liberties with this chapter. I have read up about it until I had been dried out, but yeah, this happened anyway. So yes, let's just roll with it, yeah? Unbeta-ed.

Enjoy!


Chapter Seven

I miss the way it felt back then, I want to feel that way again


There is a recurring theme to her journal entries: one, she seems to realize on a daily basis that Robert loves her, that, and that she doesn't seem to think that she can be the woman he's in love with.

What she'd told the therapist on her first session had been true. She doesn't really feel like she can live up to the Cora he used to know, and she knows that because she's read her own words, the words of woman whose memories fade away come morning, but whose had a consistent recording of how she sees the love pouring out of her husband's eyes and how sad she is that come the next day, she won't realize it until the twilight settles, and when dawn breaks she'd have forgotten that already. She knows because she's read her old entries and it seems that the Cora she used to be is too far from her own reach now, as the Cora she seems to be, the broken one.

Of course, those are her thoughts now. God knows what her thoughts would be tomorrow.

She isn't even sure if her therapy sessions, the exhausting exercises for her brain is all worth it. She knows she's made a lot of progress, her brain now seems to be able to store memories in fragments, in fractals. It's been sporadic and inconsistent—sometimes she wakes up and remembers the happenings from yesterday, or even up to three days ago, sometimes she'd wake up and have no recollections of the day before at al—but it is progress, or so her mother and Robert says.

It's just that it frustrates her so much. Her life revolves and relies on a notebook, well two to be exact, just so she can remember, just so things don't fall apart. She is tired of not being able to control her own life. She is tired of not knowing, not remembering all the things she is supposed to, of not remembering her own life. She just wants to regain her life and be able to live it without the hindrance of lost memories and the inability to make new ones.

Cora sighs heavily as her thoughts plague her, and she rolls in the soft bed, the day before now gone from her memories. She's flipping through her journals, the neon pink sticky note sticking out from the cover telling her to read the notebook, which thankfully she had done before she lost her cool this morning. She bites her lip as pain fills her chest—this is her life, why can't she remember?

But that isn't even the question is it?

When is she going to start remembering?

When is she going to be able to start and keep new ones?

She turns the page and scans the words, letting the words sink into her and letting her mind conjure images of the events, letting it unfold even if it is only in her imagination.


Robert has proposed.

And it is the most wonderful thing. He'd flown me to Prague, one of the most beautiful cities in the world. I actually almost believed that it's just another date. I should have known better, a grand scheme like this meant he was hiding something big, a grand gesture. And he was.

It had been sun down, the skies were bursting in oranges and purples, the lights turning on as the daylight faded into dusk. He'd been nervous, I could tell, and I'd wondered why. I even asked him. But he'd shrugged it off, said I was seeing things. Well, it turns out I was not! He'd led me down St. Charles' bridge. He talked to me about the future, how he'd never thought that love had been in the cards, never thought he'd fall in love actually, until he'd met me. He made this wonderful speech about finding that one person to complete his broken soul, and that he'd realized it was me. Oh, by god it was really romantic.

I smiled at him, and I could swear that the sun and the moon rose and hung in his eyes. And I know how cliché that sounds, but everyone does need a bit of cliché in their lives, don't they? Never thought I'd live it, though. I never really thought I'd find the prince I had often dreamt about when I was child, never thought I'd find him now and never thought he'd have an accent to die for, but I did.

And he'd proposed. He'd gotten down on one knee after he'd finished his speech, saying he never wants to ever feel broken anymore, so would I do him the pleasure of being his wife.

I said yes, of course.

How could I not?

He had just made my dreams come true. He is my dream come true. And now, he's just about to ensure my happily ever after.


It must have been wonderful, his proposal. The way she's written it, it does sound like it had been grand and romantic—flying her to Prague and proposing there, in one of her most favorite cities. He must have loved her very much. Too bad she cannot remember any of it.

Mother says she's getting better. She's been told this morning that yesterday, she woke up with her memories from the last three days still in her mind. It is only today that she woke up to find herself in a strange room, in a strange place. She'd panicked, but she read the journal and then mother had come swooping in the room, asking her what she remembers, explaining further what she's already read when she shook her head saying she doesn't remember much, just that it is 2010. After mother explained everything, she's understood, but it didn't make her any less tensed. The worry had stayed in her, gnawing at her.

Cora shifts again as she closes the journal and tosses it to the side. The soft rapping on the door interrupts her thoughts and she looks up, waits for whoever it is to enter. Her eyes close just as the door creaks open.

"Cora?" she hears her mother's voice but she doesn't open her eyes. She's sent her mother out of the room earlier this morning, but she finds she still cannot face her. "Cora, darling?"

"I'm awake," she mumbles without opening her eyes. She hears the door close and then the sound of her mother's footsteps follow.

The bed dips from the added weight when Martha sits beside Cora. Cora feels her mother's fingers thread through her hair, and it's soothing, wonderful, just what she needs right now. She keeps her eyes close as her mother hums for a little while, lulling her.

"Want to go have breakfast with us downstairs?" her mother asks after a while. "Or do you want to eat here?"

Cora bites her lips and then puts her hand together, slipping them under her head before she opens her eyes and stares up at her mother. Her mother's eyes are filled with concern, maybe even pity, laced with a little bit of exhaustion.

"Is he there?" she hears herself ask.

Martha nods. Of course he would be. This is his—their—house.

"He'll understand if you'd want to eat here, you must be overwhelmed," her mother says, smiling at her softly.

And yes, he would, but for how long would she be hiding from him?

"I'm fine," she says, though unconvincingly even to her own ears, "It's fine." Maybe she can say it enough until she herself believes it.

"You don't have to push yourself," her mother tells her as she strokes her hair lightly. "Robert loves you, he would understand."

There it is again. Love. Robert loves her, but she doesn't remember, and somehow, at some point in her life she must have loved him back, only, she doesn't know how or why. What is it about him that made her fall in love with him. Right at this moment, she only even knows how he looks like because of the picture of him on the table.

"I said it's fine mother," she snaps, feeling bad about it immediately. She looks up at her mother, sighing. "I'm sorry. I'm just—I just can't help but feel frustrated."

"I know." Her mother nods, and it is with empathy that she looks back down at Cora, but Cora doesn't want empathy. She wants her memories back.

Cora knows that this must have been an everyday occurrence in this household, for her to wake up like this, without memories and struggling to make new ones. It must be second nature now to explain to her the intricacies of her illness, and they must be taking this situation with their breakfast, but she doesn't remember any of it, and every day that she wakes up is as new as it had been the day before, quite literally too, because everything, every single memory from the day before has been wiped out.

Cora feels the tears leak through her eyes, flowing down her cheeks, and she wishes she could stop it, wishes she would stop feeling like this—powerless, weak, vulnerable. She hates it, and maybe that is something she's said every day, but she doesn't even know that.

"I know it's difficult," Martha says softly after a few beats of silence. "The first time you woke up with amnesia had been so difficult, and the first time you woke up without memories after three days of finally remembering, that had been heart shattering," Martha pauses for a while to breathe in deeply. Cora hears her mother's breath hitch, as though she is about to cry, and try though as she might, Cora doesn't even remember when she's last seen or heard her mother cry. "All the days in between had not exactly been a picnic either. Trust me, all we want is for you to feel better, to be better. And we know no one has it the hardest than you, but you can't let anger and frustration get the better of you. Your therapy has been working and you have been making progress. You can't let yourself lose hope."

Cora scoffs. "Hope is naught but a dirty four letter word," she retorts, the skepticism getting the best of her now.

Martha pats her head. "You will find, in time, that hope can be everything that you need."

Cora wonders if time would ever come.

It is Thanksgiving. Or at least, if he is an American, it would be.

Robert doesn't really celebrate, hadn't really celebrated until he and Cora had been together. She'd always celebrate it, always make a little feast to commemorate the holiday back in her motherland. She'd always video call with her mother and brother, and often, they would invite Rosamund and Duke to dine with them.

Rosamund had been all too willing to tag along for the free food.

Today, he prepares for the feast that his wife has always loved. He knows that she might not remember celebrating it with him, but he also knows that she will remember loving the holiday, and it is what is more important. She's always that it is when the countdown to Christmas starts.

He wants her to feel comfortable, wants to bring to her a little piece of home that is now lost to her. He wants her to see that even as she's moved to the UK, she'd always be an All American Girl, down to the holidays she celebrated.

As he putters away in the dining room, organizing the food cooked for them by his dear cook, he wonders where Cora is and what she's been up to. She's mostly kept to herself today, having been hit hard by the fact that she's forgotten so much once more, adding to that the fact that she's been able to remember the days up until this point. She'd only come down to eat with them at lunch, opting to have her breakfast in her bedroom, after all, and deciding then not to come down again. He'd enlisted his mother in law's help to pull of this day, and she's been a trooper, agreeing to keep her daughter busy as he tried to get all of this together. It hadn't been hard, on Martha's part, anyway, since Cora seems to have no desire to go down.

Though dismayed, he holds on to the hope that she'll get better. After all, her having retained her memories for three whole days is a feat, and maybe he could add tha to the list of things he is thankful for this year.

He hears a noise from the entry way, and he looks up, finding Cora standing there looking baffled and bewildered. Just in time. He smiles at her softly, not wanting to scare her away. He knows that she knows the extent of their relations by now, but he is wary and threads through this lightly. Just because she knows they are married, doesn't mean she trusts him. And though the very fact saddens him, it is the truth and he'll just have to deal with it.

"What's happening?" Cora asks, guardedly, as she crosses her arms against her chest. She looks up at him with curious eyes, but at least she isn't accusing him of anything, yet.

"Happy thanksgiving!" he greets her with as much enthusiasm as he could without frightening her. "Or at least it would be if we were in America."

She narrows her eyes at him. "You aren't even American," she tells him, and still, there is no accusation in her tone, just genuine curiosity.

That's good.

"Where you're mother?" he asks instead, not wanting to divulge the reason why he's celebrating this, even, as she's pointed out, he's not American.

"Upstairs, getting changed," she answers, still a little bit dubious.

"Well," he says, clapping his hands together and smiling at her. "Why don't you take a seat, and we can start out Thanksgiving dinner?"

She lets her narrowed eyes trained on him, but lets him pull out a chair for her. He takes the seat at the head of the table as they wait for Martha to finally arrive. It is a tensed few minutes, neither of them knowing what to say or if there is anything else to say. It is all that Robert could stand, and just as he is sure to do something he'd probably regret, Martha mercifully comes down.

"Hello!" Martha greets exuberantly, as though she feels none of the tension that has enveloped the room within the last couple of minutes. "Happy Thanksgiving!"

"Happy Thanksgiving," both Cora and Robert murmur, looking away when they realized what had happened.

Martha takes a seat then, and looks up at Robert expectantly. Robert sighs and holds out his hands. He feels his heart quicken when Cora's soft one slides into his. He lifts his eyes and finds her studying their joined hands curiously, before her mother clears her throat, making her look away. Robert then says grace, before he cuts through the bird, the abrupt way that Cora pulls her hand from his making his heart break a little…okay, a lot, he could almost feel it crack inside his chest.

"Where are Rosamund and her husband?" Martha asks, making Robert snap his attention to her.

He shrugs. "I…they were busy," he says, and he doesn't need to say anything more for Martha to know that he hadn't invited them, and she seems to understand why.

"Who is Rosamund?" he hears Cora ask in a small voice.

He turns to her and smiles reassuringly, trying to tell her without the words that it's okay if she doesn't remember. Not that that he thinks it helps her any.

"My sister," he informs her. "She always comes for this, but she and Duke, her husband, were busy today."

Cora nods, seemingly placated by his explanation, before she digs into the mash and taking a bite of the turkey. She looks lighter, looks like she's more relieved and some of the tension has been lifted from her, and he couldn't help but breathe out in sheer relief.

And as he looks at her, smile on her face as she converses with her mother about her brother, he couldn't help but be grateful. No matter how hard this situation seems to be for them all, at least she's alive to celebrate this day with them—memories or not.

That is something he will always be grateful for.

She finds him outside, at the patio, a little while after dinner, when they had all been stuffed to the gills and food coma had started to kick in. He, her husband, is sitting on the white swinging chair, looking out at the night, staring up at the stars.

"It's beautiful, isn't it?" she asks him softly, as to not startle him. But he seems to have been so deep in thoughts that she'd managed to surprise him still. "I'm sorry, I didn't meant to make you jump."

"It's fine," he says, nodding. He watches her as she takes the seat beside him, putting enough distance enough them to be polite, though she realizes there is not a need to be. He smiles. "It is beautiful. The moon glows so bright."

She nods, too, looking up at the moon. "Thank you," she whispers, after the silence stretches a while. "I…You have brought to me a piece of my home, thank you."

She sees his face fall when she mentions that America is her home, she must have told him some time ago that he is her home or something equally as cheesy as that, she definitely sees herself doing that. And that might have been true at one point, but right now, it isn't exactly what she knows.

"It was my pleasure," he says then, as if it is the only thing left to say, maybe it is.

"Why?" she asks cautiously, "why would you do it?"

He looks at her then, a hint of incredulity in his eyes. "You're my wife," he says with finality, as if that is it, as though that is everything, even if they both know that it isn't.

"Robert," she says with a hint of warning and insistence, a bit of pleading. She needs to know. She wants to know.

"Because you always celebrated it," he tells her finally. "We have always celebrated it, too, and it didn't matter to you that I was English, you said we all had something to be thankful for. I wanted for you to still be able to experience that even if you don't remember us celebrating it together, even if there is a chance you'll forget it tomorrow." He looks down at his lap and fiddled with his fingers. "And I had selfishly hoped that it would somehow spark something in you, that though your mind might not remember, your heart would do, something, somehow."

The said heart lurches inside of her and she hadn't realized she's doing it until she's already done it. With trembling fingers she takes his chin in her hands and makes their eyes meet. Blue on blue, both holding the desperate plea for her to remember, their eyes meet.

"It did," she confesses with a wry smile, heart still hammering in her chest and fingers still trembling. Her eyes water at the sight of his brilliant smile. "It did, Robert."

She doesn't quite know how it happened, if she leaned in, or he did, but all she knows is that their lips met, and fireworks exploded behind her closed eyes. It's as though the world tilted, shifted, and she's left out of balance, but she hasn't toppled over because he is there, holding her, steadying her, and she feels great, feels better that she has had in years, or those that she remembers anyway.

Her mind drifts and she finds herself wondering how they are when they make love, if it is this explosive too, and maybe it is, it probably is, if one kiss makes her knees weak. The moment he slides his tongue at the seam of her lips, she is gone, and she gives him access without qualms, letting him explore her mouth and his tongue to play with hers. He takes his time, searching, exploring, leaving no space or crevice of her mouth untouched. He lights a fire inside her, burning her from the inside out as he maps her body with his seeking hands and exploring fingers. She lets him, lets him because it feels wonderful to be touched this way, to be loved this way…by him. And if she still is unsure whether or not she loves him, it doesn't matter now, because his lips, mouth and tongue are doing things to her that makes her want to forget about it.

She will psychoanalyze in the morning, if she remembers still. And if she doesn't, well that should both be a shame and a blessing.

"Robert," she moans once he lets her mouth go and trails soft, open-mouthed kisses down her exposed throat. God, she feels good. But, "We need to stop."

And she'll regret as she sleeps alone in her giant bed that she asked him to do so, but she'll probably thank herself come morning too.

He pulls away faster than she can blink, and looks at her apologetically, eyes filled with remorse and pain—pain that might not just be on the very physical level.

"I'm sorry, Cora, I got carried away, and I," he tries to tell her but she shushes him with her index finger on his lip.

She smiles at him. "Don't worry," she says in a whisper. "I quite enjoyed myself." Her smile turns into a grin, before turning into a frown. "And if I was just sure that I won't forget the next day, I won't have asked you to stop."

She tells herself that it doesn't mean she loves him, or anything like that, because she cannot possibly love him when she doesn't even remember him.

And she almost believes it.

Two days after Thanksgiving, Cora's memory of the past few days are still in tact. Something that Robert had been so thankful for. After all, that had been some kiss, and he would feel ever so brokenhearted if she ends up forgetting it come the next day. Of course, he won't have held it against her, it is out of her control after all, but he cannot deny that it would hurt.

Today, he's asked her out on a date, and she'd agreed. He had wanted to woo her, and though there might be a chance that she won't remember the next day, well that is a risk he is willing to take. He can live in the here and the now, as long as it is with her.

"Are you ready?" he asks as he knocks on the door of her bedroom. He's been ready for a few minutes now, and is only waiting for her. Martha had patted him on the back with a sly grin, telling him encouraging words that had undoubtedly bolstered his confidence.

"Coming," she calls out from the other side of the door. "I'm almost finished." The door knob turns as she speaks, and then she emerges out of the room decked out in acid wash skinny jeans, black boots and grey slouchy shirt. Her favorite navy pea coat is draped across her arm, and she looks divine. "You ready to go?"

Yes, he thinks, as soon as I find my jaw somewhere on the floor, but he doesn't say that, instead he smiles, nods and offers her his arm, which she takes gladly. They trudge downstairs, to be greeted by Martha who has set up camp strategically by the den.

"Have fun," she tells them, kissing both their cheeks before ushering them out of their own house. "But not terrific fun, don't do anything I won't be doing."

Robert could feel warmth creeping up his cheeks, and he looks at his wife to find that she is equally just red, possibly even more so. He chuckles.

Through out the day, he tours her around London, taking her to the places she used to love, places they have always gone to together. He brought her to the London Museum where he'd brought her for their first day.

"I wanted to impress you," he's admitted with a sheepish smile as they roamed the cavernous halls of the museum. "You told me you loved art, and you were studying art. I ended up being so impressed with you, though."

She chuckles and nods, looking happy to be told of the stories of them, together.

He brought her around to a restaurant where they had their first ever dinner together. He'd told her of the story of how he'd almost tripped their waiter because he'd been tapping his foot nervously. She had laughed and he told her that she was no better, almost spilling wine on him because she had been so nervous, she'd knocked the glass off the table.

He'd brought her next to the hall where one of their friends had conducted a party where they had met. It had been a wonderful night, he recalls, and she'd been equally wonderful, graceful and resplendent in her white and gold dress. She'd blushed, and he thinks that if he isn't already so besotted with her, he'd fall for her all over again.

She asks of other places, had they been to the London eye, and he answers with yes, they have, it's a funny story actually, and he regales the story of how he's surprised her with a ride to the Eye, only to find out that she is actually acrophobic, prompting her to pummel her chest before burying her face into it, until he's convinced her to look out and view the breathtaking sight of London at night. She'd gasped then, her smile had lit up brighter than the city lights.

He remembers, remembers so well, and while she cannot do so too, he's all too willing to supply the information.

They'd come home that night with smiles on their faces, and she'd allowed him to walk her to her door.

"Is this the part where you kiss me goodnight?" she asks, teasingly, her fingers playing with the top buttons of his pyjama shirt. "After all, that's what guys do at the end of the date, right?"

He chuckles, but doesn't answer, only leans down to capture her lips and kiss her. She throws her head back, making it hit the wooden door with a dull thud. It doesn't deter her, her arms slipping around his neck to pull him closer. He pulls away after a while and rests his forehead against hers.

"Goodnight," he tells her breathlessly.

"Goodnight," she says equally as breathless. "Thank you for tonight."

"You're welcome," he says with a smile, a squeeze of her waist, before he is letting her go and watching her slip to her room and close the door with one last wave.

He sleeps that night, feeling the world is within his reach. He doesn't know what would come but this is progress, and he is thankful for that.

He wakes up the next day, still reeling from the wonderful night he's had with Cora. He seeks her out, and finds her in the den, looking frazzled. She spots him, and he looks at her questioningly.

"Who are you?" is all she asks him, but it is enough for his heart to break into many pieces, and his world to crumble.


A/N: That was fluffy, right? :) Let me know what you think! :)

Italics on the first half are part of Cora's journal! :)