I wish I didn't remember the way he used to look at me - his eyes filled with admiration and desire. He had me on a pedestal back then. In his eyes I could do no wrong. He adored me, just as I adored him.

I wish I didn't remember his voice when we were alone. The way he would whisper my name when we lying in bed, wrapped in each others arms. The way he would tell me about his day ... Oh, God, his voice. Soft and low. Gentle ... almost reverent. He never spoke a harsh word to me, rarely raised his voice at all.

I wish I didn't remember the way he would touch me. The mere brush of his hand against mine was enough calm me and set me on fire at the same time. He loved my hair ... he used to brush it for me at night, with such patience. But then, he wasn't always so patient ... When I close my eyes I can feel his soft, insistent lips on my cheek, my face, my neck, my ... these are things I wish I could forget.

Before I found him, I used to take comfort in these flashes, these dreams. The thought that someone out there loved me so completely was enough to get me through ten God awful years with Nesado. Whenever I was lonely or upset, I would think of him and wonder if he was thinking of me. I wondered if he remembered as much as I did. I hoped against hope that he remembered more, that he could fill in some of the gaps when we were reunited. I used to dream day and night of the day we would finally find each other.

When we did meet and I realized that he remember nothing, when I looked into his eyes and saw nothing, no spark of recognition, let alone love, I was more than disappointed ... but I was still hopeful. When all three of them hurled accusations at me and shunned me from their circle, I remained optimistic. I had to. I had to believe that somehow everything would work out. When he screamed at me and accused me of working against them, I still clung to all that Nesado had told me ... But seeing him with Liz ... day in, day out ... it's like slowly suffocating. And yet, somehow, I get the feeling that everyone is silently rooting for her. No one seems to understand that the roles are just opposite to what they appear. I am not the intruder here. She is. She's the one who doesn't belong, the one he should be resisting.

If I didn't remember what once was, maybe it wouldn't feel like a slap in the face every time he glares at me. Maybe I wouldn't wish I could just die, each time he spits out name as if it were a curse. And maybe I wouldn't cry myself to sleep, remembering the times he's roughly grabbed my arm, shoved me around ... as if I meant absolutely nothing ... which I don't, I suppose.