Blurb：
Two weeks before their divorce was finalized, Julian lost his memory in a car accident—reverting to his nineteen-year-old self, the year he loved Claire the most. Now, Claire is torn between the cold, distant Julian she was divorcing and the tender, attentive man who once brought her croissants and cared for her every need. As storms rage outside and his cactus withers, she waits for a reply to her text, wondering if this amnesia is a cruel twist of fate or a chance to rekindle their love. But with Julian’s intellectual arrogance, his lab at the Ivy League university, and the haunting dreams of his female student, Claire must confront her fears: Does she truly want a divorce, or is she clinging to a memory of the man she once knew? Dive into this emotional rollercoaster of love, betrayal, and second chances, where a hair tie, a mole on his wrist, and a conference in Crestwood could change everything.
Content：
Two weeks before our divorce was finalized, Julian got into a car accident and lost his memory..
His memory reverted to when he was nineteen.
The year he loved me the most.
…
“Did you want that croissant from the bakery down the street??”
“I saw it on my way home. Looked like it wasn’t too sweet,I thought you might like it.”
“It’s been storming these past few days, Julian. Your cactus is dying.”
“…”
“Julian.”
“When are you coming home?”
I stared down at the chat window on my phone.
Two days had passed.
Julian still hadn’t replied to my “make-up” text.
This time, we’d fought pretty badly.
I remember him slamming the door hard when he left.
The way he’d snarled at me.
“Claire, do you actually want a divorce?”
I had a huge fight with him over it.
I remember, when I brought it up—
He was rubbing his temples while typing away on his keyboard.
“A hair tie?”
“Must’ve left my coat in the lab. Someone probably put it in there by mistake.”
“Give it here, I’ll return it on Monday.”
His long slender hand reached out—still not looking up at me.
His skin was pale, so the mole on his wrist stood out starkly and distractingly.
I handed him the hair tie. He slipped it directly onto his wrist, the dangling bear charm covering the mole.
It made me think of our wedding rings. He hadn’t worn his in a long time.
He still didn’t look at me, focused on replying to some message, until my voice cracked with the threat of tears.
“Whose is this?”
I snatched the hair tie back, demanding an answe.
Those striking, beautiful eyes finally landed on me—then narrowed slightly.
“It’s one of my students’.”
“Then why was it in your pocket?”
“I told you—it was a mistake.”
“How do you mistakenly put your hair tie in your professor’s coat? Why doesn’t that happen to anyone else?”
“Is this really necessary? What are you trying to say, Claire?”
And so it escalated into a fight where no one won.
Julian was a man is in chemistry, works in a research lab at an Ivy League university.
Arguing with him was always exhausting. He has this intellectual arrogance, convinced he’s always logically sound, and he’s adept at pinpointing and attacking any flaw in your reasoning.
“If that’s what you want to believe, fine.”
In the end, he gave up communicating with me.
Just before shutting the door, he turned it all back on me.
“Claire, do you actually want a divorce?”
I didn’t know how to make him understand how I felt in this relationship.
I was afraid he’d leave. Afraid he’d cheat.
I just wanted reassurance. That’s all.
After graduation, he’d stayed on as faculty. He was actually pretty well-known, he even went viral once because people thought he was so handsome..
I know, and on some level I understand, he can’t only have male students. Interaction in a lab is inevitable.
I just want to know why he can’t explain it to me properly. Or just look at me.
Pull me into his arms and reassure me, even just a little.
Like he used to.
I don’t know when he started becoming like this.
He came home less and less, always saying he was busy with experiments, research. It’s true, these past few years he’s won awards, become incredibly busy. He has reasons for not being around, and I use those reasons to comfort myself.
Until three months ago, when I started having this recurring dream.
In it, he was intimate with one of his female students.
He whispers sweet nothings to her, with the same tenderness he once showed me.
That tender expression he hadn’t shown me in so long was now directed at that girl. It hurt so much—like my heart was being ripped apart.
I’d wake up and realize it was just a dream.
My pillow would be wet. I’d been crying so hard in the dream.
Even if Julian didn’t reply to my messages, I could still find out where he was.
One of his colleagues was an old high school friend of mine.
A quick text later, and I had his schedule for the past few days.
I hadn’t realized—during all these days we’d been in silent treatment, he’d gone out of state to a conference in Crestwood.
I grabbed a jacket, took my car keys, and headed downstairs.
I pulled up outside the research building at Crestwood University just as the sky was beginning to lighten.
I’d driven through the night. To stay awake, I sat in the car sipping coffee from a vending machine.
Until someone knocked on my window.
“Excuse me, this parking is reserved for conference attendees and their families.”
I rolled down the window and saw a girl with a slightly off-center ponytail.
A little too coincidentally—that bear charm was dangling from her hair.
“I’m here to see someone.”
I looked straight into her eyes. “Julian Wright. That guy on the placard—he’s my husband.”
The girl’s face instantly shocked.
“Unless you’re staff or family, you can’t park here.”
Then, as if she hadn’t heard me, she repeated herself.
“Julian Wright is my husband. Doesn’t that make me family?”
“You can’t prove you’re Professor Wright’s wife.”
Her response almost made me laugh. Yeah, who carries their marriage certificate around?
I leaned against the window frame and looked at her.
“Then could you please go get Professor Wright for me?”
I needed to talk to him.
The girl’s expression immediately shifted to one of disgust.
“Another one of Professor Wright’s admirers, using that as an excuse to get close to him, right?”
Julian’s admirers? Me?
When Julian was chasing me, this girl probably hadn’t even started college yet.
I didn’t want to engage further. I started raising the window, planning to call Julian.
The call still didn’t go through. I was starting to wonder if he’d blocked me.
The sun was climbing higher, the summer heat becoming oppressive. I squinted—until the next moment, when my windshield was suddenly covered in white.
I straightened up and adjusted the dash cam.
Because someone was splashing paint on my car.
The person splashing paint was that same girl.
Her eyes were filled with venom as she clutched the empty paint bucket. The commotion had drawn a crowd, and a few people were now holding her back..
When I’d been trying to call Julian earlier, the girl had disappeared.
I thought she’d decided to ignore me—turned out she’d gone to grab a bucket of paint left near a sign for touch-ups.
I stayed in my seat, turned on the wipers to clear the paint off the windshield, and locked eyes with the girl.
What kind of students was Julian teaching these days?
“Lily Evans, why did you splash paint on someone’s car?”
Our commotion was starting to draw attention from other students.
One of the guys holding her back I recognized—he was Julian’s first graduate student.
He probably recognized me too, because when I stepped out of the car, he looked terrified.
“M—Mrs. Wright.”
His voice was shaking.
“Where’s Julian?”
I asked him.
“Professor Wright should be here soon—”
Before he could finish, a cool, detached voice cut through.
“Lily Evans. Come here. Now.”
It was Julian, calling for the girl who’d splashed paint on my car.
I rarely saw him reprimand students so sternly, though I’d heard rumors his teaching style was quite severe.
He stood on the steps, looking down, his words to the girl leaving no room for argument.
Within moments, the girl was crying, her head bowed.
“But—but I just thought she seemed like she was harassing you… She was scary…”
Her crying grew louder, as if she’d been deeply wronged.
And then Julian pinched the bridge of his nose and let out a heavy, resigned sigh.
I looked down, fiddling with my phone.
Until a shadow fell over me.
“I’m sorry.”
It was Julian.
This was the eighth day of our silent treatment—the first thing he’d said to me.
I looked up at his face—still so classically handsome, the features that always made my heart flutter, the reason people called us the perfect couple.
“Don’t call the police.”
His gaze fell on the 911 dial screen on my phone.
“Why not?”
I tried to keep my voice steady.
“No one’s hurt. No need to trouble the police.”
“Julian, your student just splashed paint on my car.”
I emphasized each word.
“She didn’t even apologize?”
I looked past him at his student, being led away by a few others, the little bear charm still swaying.
“I’ll apologize on her behalf, okay?”
I heard his tone soften. He was yielding to me now—for his student. After all these days of silence, not a single word to comfort me.
“Julian.”
I said his name. Maybe my tone was too cold—he paused.
Then sighed, rubbing his temples. He always did this around me, as if he were the one constantly indulging me.
“That student—she has bipolar disorder.”
“She has… gone crazy sometimes. If you call the police and they get involved—”
“She could face disciplinary action.”
“Can you just let it go this time?”
“So? What does her disciplinary action have to do with me?”
“What if I say I’m calling the police no matter what?”
A long moment passed,
Julian braced his hand against the car frame, leaning down to look at me.
“Claire.”
“This car is under my name. Calling the police won’t do anything.”
…I’d forgotten. We had two cars—this time, I’d taken his.
But that sentence made his stance very clear.
He was protecting his student, right or wrong.
It just made me think of high school, when he’d fought off bullies to protect me.
Skipped school to take on those gang members outside.
He ended up in the hospital, but he just grinned and showed me his bandaged arm..
“I’m fine, really. Just blow on it for me, sweetheart.”
I opened my mouth, but no words came out. What was there left to argue?
He seemed to think the matter was settled.
Reached out to ruffle my hair.
“Alright? Don’t take it out on a kid.”
“Have you eaten? Let me take you to get something.”
I stood there for a long moment, sunlight fracturing at my feet.
A question I’d been turning over finally found its way out.
I looked at him, bewildered:
“Julian.”
“But you said—”
“You’d never let me feel wronged.”
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