Kairo’s Obsession Grows

Kairo didn't sleep that night.

Not out of pain, though there was always some dull ache echoing through his spine and legs, but because the image of the woman from the hallway refused to leave him.

It haunted him.

He didn't know her name, not for certain but he felt her.

Not in the way one recognizes a passing acquaintance. Not like a distant recollection returning from the haze. No, this was something else. Something cellular.

His skin remembered her before his mind did.

Her voice had been soft, but layered. Like someone trained not to be heard.

Her posture was composed, but her eyes…

God.

Her eyes had nearly unmade him.

They'd looked at him like she knew every line of his soul, and then pretended not to recognize a single one.

That wasn't just a stranger passing through.

That was a woman who was carrying something.

And he felt like that something might've once been him.

By morning, Kairo was scribbling in his sketchbook like a man starved for air.

He drew her again.

And again.

At first, it was just outlines. Her frame. Her lips. The curve of her neck. Then her eyes. Always the eyes. Wide and soft and aching with unspoken things.

He couldn't get them right.

He tore out five pages trying.

By the sixth attempt, he stopped trying to draw with precision and started sketching from feeling.

The way she looked at him, caught between distance and devotion.

The sadness in the corners of her mouth.

The restraint, like she was fighting gravity itself to stop from falling toward him.

When he looked at the sketch again, his hands trembled.

Because even without a label, he knew this wasn't just some passing face.

This was the woman who left the note.

This was the voice in his dream.

This was Noelle.

The knock at the door came too fast and too loud, breaking his trance.

Dr. Cross entered without waiting.

Clipboard in hand. Business suit beneath her coat. No softness in her face.

"Good morning, Mr. Lancaster," she said, nodding toward the untouched breakfast on the tray. "Still not eating?"

"Not hungry," he muttered.

She sighed and made a note.

Kairo didn't like her.

Not because she was unkind. But because she was clinical.

Because she treated his mind like a broken file she was trying to recover, not a story he was fighting to remember.

"You've been drawing," she observed, eyes landing on the sketchpad.

Kairo didn't answer.

"Is that helping?" she asked. "Sometimes visual processing can stimulate emotional recollection, but it can also lead to misassociations."

"She's not a misassociation," Kairo said sharply.

Dr. Cross looked up.

He held up the sketchpad. "This woman. She was in the hallway yesterday. Cleaning crew."

Dr. Cross blinked. "You mean the Filipino volunteer?"

"She left this note."

"You're sure?"

He pointed. "Same eyes. Same energy. She knew me."

"Did she say she knew you?"

"No."

"Then it's projection."

Kairo exhaled, long and bitter.

"No. It's memory."

"Mr. Lancaster," she said gently, "the mind is fragile after trauma. It builds bridges where there are none. Grasping at emotion instead of fact is a dangerous road to walk."

"I'm not grasping," he said through clenched teeth. "I'm remembering."

"Then let's talk about facts."

She flipped open her folder.

"Noelle Reyes. That name doesn't exist in your emergency contacts. There are no photos. No email threads. No calls. No shared addresses. Your family records list no partner. No fiancée. No girlfriend."

Kairo didn't look away.

"Then they're missing something."

"Or you're creating something."

His fist clenched the sheets.

Dr. Cross closed the folder and softened her tone.

"I know this is hard. I know your instincts are powerful. But right now, what you need is stability, sleep, patience. If this woman was important to you, we would've found her."

"She was so important," Kairo whispered, "I married her."

Silence.

Even Dr. Cross didn't have a prepared line for that.

Then: "Kairo…"

"She told me once that I was afraid of love. That I didn't believe in it. But that I loved her anyway."

"Did she say that yesterday?"

"No. She wrote it."

"And you remember saying it?"

"No. But I remember meaning it."

Dr. Cross stood slowly.

"Let's try to keep the sessions constructive today. Focus on dates. Facts. Neutral memory recall."

He didn't respond.

As she walked out, he turned back to the sketchpad.

He wrote her name beneath the latest portrait.

Noelle.

Then, smaller, beneath that:

If I built a world and lost it… she was the reason it was worth building.