Have We Meet Before?

“Call Mrs. Hayes. Let her know her husband is awake.”

Noah's eyes fluttered open, his vision blurry at first, adjusting to the harsh fluorescent lights above him. A steady beep echoed in his ears, and he felt the cold, sterile sheets draped over his body. His limbs felt impossibly heavy, as though he'd been weighted down for months. He tried to move but found that even the smallest twitch sent waves of pain through him.

A door creaked open. Footsteps approached. A man in a white lab coat appeared at his bedside, clipboard in hand, his face soft but scrutinizing.

“Mr. Hayes,” the man said with a calm smile. “Welcome back. I'm Dr. Fitz. You've been through a lot, but it's good to see you awake.”

Noah blinked, disoriented, his gaze drifting down to his own body. His legs were still there. His arms, too. He flexed his fingers, a small relief washing over him. At least he was whole—whatever had happened, whatever had put him here, hadn’t taken that away.

“Can you speak?” Dr. Fitz asked, leaning in slightly, eyes sharp with concern.

Noah parted his lips. His throat was dry, his voice caught as though unused for far too long. “I…” he managed, but it felt like the word scraped painfully out of him.

The doctor held up a hand. “Don’t strain yourself. It’ll come back. You’ve been in a coma for a few months. It’ll take some time for your body to fully recover. For now, just take it slow. Do you understand? Blink once for yes.”

Noah blinked, feeling the weight of the doctor’s words sink in. Months? He had been gone for months?

Dr. Fitz smiled slightly. “Good. We’ve already contacted your wife—Clara. She was visiting family up north, but she got caught in a snowstorm. She’s trying to get here as soon as she can.”

Noah’s brow furrowed, his heart stumbling over itself in his chest. Wife? The word felt alien, distant. A faint tremor passed through him as he searched the fog of his mind, but it was empty—void of memories. “Wife…” he croaked, barely louder than a whisper.

The doctor’s expression shifted—just a flicker of concern, quickly masked. “Yes. Clara. You don’t remember her?”

Noah stared at him, the silence between them growing heavier with each passing second. He closed his eyes, trying to dig through the murk in his brain, searching for something—anything. When he opened them again, there was only one word he could muster.

“Nothing.”

Dr. Fitz exhaled softly, lowering his clipboard. “It’s alright,” he said, though his voice betrayed the calmness in his words. “Memory loss is common after a coma. Just give it time. We’ll help you through this.”

Noah swallowed, his throat dry and aching, his mind spinning with questions that had no answers. His fingers twitched at his sides, itching for something familiar—something solid to hold onto. But there was nothing. Just the white walls, the sterile smell of the room, and the gnawing emptiness in his mind where his life should have been.

And somewhere out there, a woman—his wife—was waiting for him. A woman he couldn’t remember.

 The next day, Noah was sitting up in bed, eating on his own. By evening, he was trying to stand, though his legs still felt shaky beneath him. Each attempt sent him wobbling, but the fire of determination burned brighter with every struggle. He was going to get better. He had to.

That night, however, sleep refused to come. The world around him was a blank canvas, full of things he should know but couldn’t quite grasp. Places, people—none of them came to him, no familiar faces to anchor him in this strange reality.

His thoughts gnawed at him, keeping him awake. He sat up in bed, sweat beading on his forehead. The room was dark, except for the steady green glow of the heart monitor—an irritating reminder of where he was. The beep-beep-beep was almost mocking.

Frustrated, Noah threw his legs over the side of the bed. He had convinced himself he could stand, that his legs were stronger than they felt. But the moment his feet touched the floor, he collapsed like a sack of potatoes.

Surprisingly, it didn’t hurt—he was too shocked to feel pain. Then, laughter bubbled up inside him. It was that or cry, and Noah chose laughter. In this moment, he stood at a crossroads: he could laugh in the face of the impossible and push forward, or he could cower and give up.

Noah rolled over, laughing as he crawled to a nearby chair. Grunting and straining, he hoisted himself up, inch by inch, until he was sitting in the chair. Triumph swelled in his chest. He was still shaking, but he had moved. Reaching for the light switch, he flicked it on and winced as the brightness flooded the room. But he couldn’t help feeling a small sense of victory.

His gaze swept the room, landing on a mirror on the wall. A new challenge. With a deep breath, Noah spent nearly an hour struggling to position himself in front of the mirror. He was desperate to see what he looked like—not even remembering his own face.

Finally, he managed to catch a glimpse. What he saw made his eyes widen in disbelief. A scrawny, bearded man stared back at him.

“Have we met before?” Noah asked the stranger in the mirror, his lips curling into a tired smile.

“Get the doctor!” a nurse screamed as she rushed into Noah's room.

The shout jolted Noah awake. He blinked groggily, quickly realizing why she was so alarmed. Last night had taken more out of him than he’d anticipated. After seeing himself in the mirror, he had been so exhausted that getting back to bed felt impossible. The floor had become his bed, and sleep claimed him right where he fell.

When the nurse had come in that morning, she found him sprawled out on the cold floor, unconscious.

“I'm terribly sorry for the scare,” Noah said, wincing as the nurse and doctor worked together to help him back to his bed.

“Your speech seems to be improving,” Dr. Fitz remarked as he carefully lowered Noah onto the mattress.

“Yes, much better. It’s still a bit sore, but manageable,” Noah replied, offering a small smile despite the situation.

The doctor chuckled. “That’s good to hear. Now, what on earth were you doing on the floor?”

Noah sighed and glanced toward the mirror on the wall. He took a moment before answering. “I guess I got a little too ambitious last night. I tried to stand up, fell, crawled around a bit. I dragged myself up to look in the mirror... then gravity won out. After that, the floor seemed like a pretty good place to sleep.”

Dr. Fitz shook his head with a smile. “Let’s take it easy next time, alright? You’re making great progress, so no need to rush it. We’ll get you walking again soon.”

Noah nodded. “I’m not giving up,” he said, determined.

The doctor gave him an approving look. “That’s the spirit.”

Three days later, Noah was walking on his own, though slowly and cautiously. He could stand on his own two legs for about a minute before they gave out, but it was progress. What he longed for most, though, was to talk to someone who knew him. Someone who might help fill the gaps in his mind. But for now, no one was around.

Clara, was still stuck due to the snowstorm, and she wouldn’t be there for at least three more days. Dr. Fitz had been called away on an emergency, leaving Noah to navigate his recovery mostly on his own.

It wasn’t all bad, though. During the day, he spent time with the physical therapist, taking slow steps and talking about anything that might help jog his memory. Then, he would have sessions with a psychologist, exploring whatever thoughts or flashes came to mind. He learned his coma was the result of a car accident—in which a vehicle had driven off a bridge and plunged into a river.

At night, Noah would sit in front of the TV, flipping through channels, hoping something—anything—would spark a memory. So far, nothing did.

On the third night, feeling restless, he found himself back in front of the mirror. He stared at his reflection, taking in the unfamiliar face that looked back at him—the scrawny, bearded man with tired eyes. It was as if he were looking at someone else entirely.

“Have we met before?” Noah whispered to himself, the words lingering in the quiet room. Even now, it felt like he was staring at a complete stranger.

Noah left his room and wandered through the nursing station, hunting for accessories. After some time, he returned to his room with a collection of items and began playing dress-up.

First, he put on a baseball cap he’d found, grabbed a broomstick like a bat, and stood in front of the mirror. “Have we met before?” he asked his reflection.

After a minute of striking various poses, he shrugged. “No, I don’t believe we have,” he answered himself, shaking his head with mock seriousness.

Next, he tried on a sombrero that had been hanging up as a decoration. With a grin, he struck a pose and then stared at his reflection. “¿Nos hemos conocido antes? ¿Qué? ¿Hablo español? ¡Eureka, soy latino!” he declared, his voice full of excitement.

He stared at himself for a moment longer, then wandered over to the file hanging by his door and flipped through it. His basic information was listed there, including his race: Caucasian. He chuckled and returned to the mirror, removing the sombrero with a small laugh. “No, I do not believe we’ve met,” he said, amused by his antics.

Next, he found a safari hat that was resting next to the sombrero. He donned it, stood in front of the mirror, and mimed expressions as if he were on a grand hunt. Suddenly, he gave a mock startle upon “discovering” his own reflection. “My apologies, good sir, but have we met before?” he asked in an exaggerated British accent.

He paused, then answered himself with a confident nod, “No, chap, I don’t believe we have.”

Finally, Noah picked up a bucket hat adorned with fishing lures, along with a fishing pole he’d found in one of the offices. Standing before the mirror, he gazed at his reflection. This time, something stirred inside him. A familiar feeling.

“Have we met before?” he asked quietly.

Without waiting for an answer, he instinctively cast the fishing line out the door. The bait sailed through the air and landed neatly in a nearby trash can.

“Well done,” Noah said to himself, smiling in the mirror as he reeled the line back in. “I do believe we may have met before.”

That was all the accessories he had for the night. He returned everything to its place and counted the night as a win. He had learned something new about himself: he loved fishing, and judging by his accuracy, he was pretty good at it.

The following day was much like the others, except after his therapy session, Noah had a new idea. He asked the therapist and psychologist if they had any accessories he could use for his "dress-up therapy," after explaining his strategy. Amused and intrigued, they agreed to help gather whatever they could.

Unfortunately, that night, the only thing they managed to find was a gardener’s hat that a woman at the front desk had in her car. Noah didn’t turn it down. Once everyone had left, he slipped the hat on, looked in the mirror, and asked, “Have we met before?”

He shook his head. “No, I don’t believe we have.”

The next day, things took a more exciting turn. Noah was given three large totes filled with accessories. Once the others in the home had gone to sleep, he dove into his new supplies, ready to unlock more pieces of himself.

“Freeze! Have we met before?” he asked, wearing a makeshift badge and pointing finger guns at the mirror.

“Negative, captain,” he replied to himself, shaking his head.

He swapped the badge for a firefighter’s helmet, but instead of fighting fires, he posed like he was modeling for a calendar. “What do you say, good-looking? Have we met before?”

“Oh, trust me,” he told his reflection with a wink. “You’d know if we had.”

Costume after costume, Noah tried on various outfits, each one bringing a bit of lightheartedness to his search for his identity. But something began to nag at him. His beard—unkempt and scruffy—didn’t feel right. It must have grown during his coma, and he was confident that the disheveled look wasn’t truly him.

The next day, one of the nurses arranged for a barber to make a house call. After a haircut and a clean shave, Noah looked in the mirror and felt a flicker of recognition. The man staring back at him felt more familiar. Progress was slow, but it was progress nonetheless.

That night, Noah continued his dress-up therapy. He put on a diver’s mask and flippers, then started dancing in front of the mirror, convinced that no one was watching. He moved with abandon, enjoying the silliness of the moment—until the sound of stifled laughter made him freeze.

He turned, almost toppling over in his flippers, to find Dr. Fitz standing in the doorway, failing miserably to contain his amusement.

Noah felt a wave of embarrassment wash over him but quickly shook it off. “Okay, okay,” he laughed. “Let me explain.”

Once Noah had finished explaining his strategy, Dr. Fitz nodded thoughtfully. “That’s actually a pretty good approach,” he said.

“Yeah, but now that you’re here, maybe you could tell me a little more about myself?” Noah asked, hope lighting up his eyes.

Dr. Fitz sighed, his expression softening. “I’m sorry, Noah. I didn’t know you before you came to the home. Your wife visited often and talked to you, but most of our conversations were about your condition. I can, however, tell you how you ended up here—if you want to know.”

Noah hesitated for a moment, his mind racing. What if he had caused the accident? He knew it was a car crash, but he didn’t know if everyone had survived. “Yeah, anything would help,” he finally said, though there was a knot of anxiety in his chest.

“It was a winter day,” Dr. Fitz began. “A woman was driving with her kids when she lost control on the ice and drove off a small bridge into a lake. You were nearby, fishing, and you immediately raced to their aid. You jumped into the water and managed to pull both of the kids out.”

“And the mother?” Noah asked, a sinking feeling forming in his stomach.

“The mother got out on her own. She was fine,” Dr. Fitz assured him. “But while you were handing one of the children over to another good Samaritan who had come to help, a large block of ice fell from the bridge and struck you, knocking you unconscious. You were pulled from the water, but you’d fallen into a coma.”

Dr. Fitz gave him a small smile. “In short, you’re a hero.”

Noah blinked, stunned by the revelation. “Wow… that sounds hard to believe,” he said softly.

“I bet,” Dr. Fitz replied. “Especially when it’s you, and you can’t remember any of it.”

Dress-up therapy continued for the next two days, but now Noah wasn’t doing it alone. In the afternoons, he and the other residents turned it into a game, taking turns dressing up and creating the most ridiculous combinations they could find. Laughter filled the room as they swapped outfits and tried on hats that were either too big or too small, coats that dragged on the floor, and accessories that made no sense.

Noah had already tried every realistic outfit possible, so now it was just for fun. He watched as Dr. Fitz squeezed into a postman’s uniform that was clearly a few sizes too small, causing everyone to burst into laughter until they were practically doubled over.

Feeling playful, Noah grabbed an old newsboy hat and a long coat. He stood in front of the group, holding up an imaginary newspaper. “Read all about it! Man loses his memory and constantly asks himself if ‘we met before,’” he said with a laugh, posing dramatically.

But as his laughter faded, he noticed the others had gone silent. He looked toward the doorway and saw a woman standing there, her eyes glistening with tears. She smiled through her sadness, her expression both heartbroken and filled with joy.

“We have,” she said softly, her voice warm and familiar.

Noah froze. That smile—it hit him like a freight train, crashing through the mental wall that had blocked his memories for so long. Suddenly, everything came flooding back in a rush—like a tidal wave overwhelming him with moments from his life. The smile she’d given him when he first asked her out, their first kiss, their first dance, their wedding. The birth of their children. The day they bought their house. And then, that smile—the last thing he saw as he passed a young boy from the frozen lake into her arms before the ice had knocked him unconscious.

“Clara,” Noah whispered, his voice filled with wonder. He rushed to her, wrapping her tightly in his arms as if he would never let her go.

Tears streamed down her cheeks, but her smile widened as she looked up at him. “You remember me?” she asked, her voice trembling with hope.

“Of course,” Noah said, his own eyes misting over. “I just needed to see my world again in order to remember it.”