A year in a coma has taken a toll on my body.

Two months. It has taken two months of rehabilitation to get myself back on my own feet and adjust back to the real world. After going for many physiotherapy sessions and psychological assessments, I'm finally given the green light by my doctor to head back home.

But I don't even know where that place is.

He congratulated me for making a full recovery, but I do not feel the same happiness and relief as he does. Instead, my face remains impassive. He tells me that I'm alive and that's all that matters, but I don't react. I can't.

Because I don't feel alive.

"Riley?"

I turn towards the voice and meet my aunt. Just like the first time I met her, she is dressed in her favorite flowery dress. She has her hair done up in a messy bun and light makeup. With loose locks of her blonde hair framing her face, she doesn't look like her age or even a mother.

She asks me the same question every day. "How are you feeling today?"

I shrug. "Good."

When I first met her, she told me her name is Abbie Dale, and that mine is Riley Perez. I'm seventeen this year.

How much truth her words hold, I do not know. Every time I spot her coming down the hospital corridor and into my ward, her face is a blank in my memory. No matter how often she smiles and pats my head, I feel nothing towards her.

No affection, no memories, nothing.

This brings me back to the question—who am I exactly?

She claims that she's my mother's sister and our families used to be close-knitted. If what she says is true, why do I not get a sense of familiarity whenever we are together? To be constantly told that we are family when I clearly do not remember her puts me in a rather uncomfortable spot.

I don't tell her and I don't show it either.

After all, the problem lies not with her, but with me.

Aunt Abbie clasps her hands and beams widely at me. "I just finished the paperwork, Riley! You're finally discharged!"

I don't answer. It's funny how she seemed to be so much happier when I'm the one who just came out of a coma.

In the end, I simply nod my head.

Shooting me a smile, she turns and grabs my bag from the bed, before holding out her hand.

"Let's go home."

I nod and take her hand. The feeling of warmth coming from Aunt Abbie's hand is pleasant. I tell myself that I will live with this woman from now onwards in this small town called Lakeshore. She will care for me and give me a roof over my head.

However, it isn't enough to make me feel at ease.

Throughout the car ride, Aunt Abbie is trying to ease the awkward silence by telling me about herself. She got married seven years ago and has a six-year-old kid named Judy. She mentions that I have played with my little cousin before, but it's something that I obviously have no recollection of.

After a thirty minutes' drive, we arrived at the house—a relatively big, two-storey building with a black and beige exterior. Flowerbeds of red, yellow and purple flowers line on both sides of the walkway, leading up to the humble home. The front porch is neat and classic; the main door sets two outdoor chairs, along with pots of herbs placed on a console table by the hanging swing.

Once we are inside, the place is still and silent.

Aunt Abbie shrugs out of her coat. "Dave has gone to pick up Judy from school," she says. "They should be back soon."

She gives me a grand tour of the place. The living room and the kitchen are on the first floor. Going up the flight of carpeted steps, Aunt Abbie's and Judy's rooms are on the right, while mine was the first room on the left.

At least, it is comforting to know they will give me my personal space.

With my bag in hand, Aunt Abbie shows me to my room. It has all the basic furniture I need—a bed, a wardrobe, a shelf and a table. She even attempted to add some flowers and novels to brighten the place. It looks cozy, but it certainly lacks warmth.

She grins at me. "Make yourself home. I'll be downstairs preparing dinner. Shout if you need anything."

I nod. As she turns to leave, she pauses. "Oh, I almost forgot," she says. She grabs something from the table and hands it to me — a blue notebook.

She hesitates for a brief second. "Your memories might return someday," she explains. "And I understand if you would feel uncomfortable sharing them with me. I'm still a stranger to you. But if you jot them down, it might help."

Her thoughtfulness surprises me. The edge of my lips curve upwards into a small, grateful smile.

"It's perfect," I tell her and she returns a warm smile. "Thank you."

She nods. When she leaves for real this time, I sit on the edge of my bed and glance down at the notebook in my hand. Grabbing a pen from the table, I flip to the first page and ponder over what I should write.

For the past two months, it feels as if I'm living in a bubble. Unlike everybody else, I watch the world from the inside. I feel strangely disconnected from it. I move like a robot; a machine that receives instructions and acts on it. When someone tells me to do something, I do it. I don't even think about it.

The car accident didn't just rob me of my memories. It has taken away most of my emotions and desires as well.

And yet, a small human part of me remains. A tiny one. So many questions float through my mind without answers. What about my family? My parents? Where did I used to live? And what happened during the accident?

If I write them down, will it quell the storm in my head before I truly go insane?

❖

Dear Riley,

We share the same name.

You are a figment of my past. A ghost. Yet I don't see you when I look into the mirror every day.

Tell me, who are you?

😂