Rain spatters against my face as I crawl from the wreck. She’s there beside me, unmoving. The sirens blur into the distance.

When she finally opens her eyes days later, something inside me snaps. She doesn’t remember me. Doctors call it trauma. But time is a fucking joke.

Every morning I wake before her. I tell her my name again. It’s routine at first, almost sweet. Then temptation slides in. She won’t remember what I do.

The guilt is thick, sticky. Yet under the sheets her body remembers what her mind can’t. I start to wonder if pleasure can rebuild memory. Each thrust feels like both sin and hope.

Then her sister appears at my door. Same lips, same eyes, only sharper. She moves in “to help”. Sometimes she touches my arm too long. It’s a game of mirrors and guilt.

At night, I can’t tell who’s in my arms. Her sister kisses like revenge. I tell myself I’m only searching for the truth. Soon, strangers start calling. My life becomes a loop of lies, orgasms, and apologies.

The choices are mine alone. I can be gentle or brutal. Her sister might join us in bed. Some nights end with tender kisses.

This story isn’t about rescue. You can fuck your way through guilt. Each dawn gives another chance to choose who you are. Play as lover or sinner. She forgets everything again when morning comes.