I’d been in hospital, but I didn’t know why. My parents told me I’d had a fall and had gone into a coma. All I remember from my trip was seeing God, and I had wings. There was a boy, he told me, that was waiting for me. With me everyday, holding my hand. But why don’t I remember?

I walked out of my apartment and down the sunny sidewalk of Cornwall. I felt weird, like I’d been reborn but my soul was still the same, just fragmented into different pieces. Someone was saying a name.

I turned round. “Amy!” It yelled. And yelled again, and again, and again. Why did that name sound familiar? I shrugged and kept walking.

Someone gripped the wall in front of me. I looked up, slowly. Slowly again, slowly again. I squinted to see a boy. He held roses. His eyes looked at my face. “Amy?” A tear rolled down his cheek.

I watched a blonde haired girl tug at his arm. She wasn’t me, I was brunette. Just like him, blonde. His sister? She smiled at me but I frowned. Who were they?

“Come now,” she spoke a language I didn’t understand. It wasn’t a language I could hear, but I could remember. It was a language of something big, something mutational between me and the boy.

He cried and hugged me, holding me close, until the girl pulled him away. I could see her heart in her hands, giving it to him. So why did she still have a loving expression? Until I realised it was my heart. The one I couldn’t remember about. That boy loved me, I realised. And I loved him. But it was too late, he stepped away into a car.

The name he called wasn’t just a random name, it was my name. And I knew I’d failed his love in this life because of my illness, but I knew through every other life—Amelia, Ameen, Amiee, Ix Cuat, Amo, Ami, Amar, Amara—he’d love me, just as I loved him.