**Diary Entry – 12th May**
You never imagine something awful will happen to you. Just an ordinary evening—driving home after meeting my mate, humming along to the radio, nothing out of the ordinary. Then, in an instant, everything changed. A car came tearing round the bend and smashed into mine. The impact was the last thing I remembered.
When I woke in hospital, the doctors told me I’d been in a coma for over a week. Said I was lucky not to be left disabled. Lucky? I didn’t feel it.
Partial amnesia—that’s what they called it. I remembered my family, my closest friends, my dog, but whole chunks of my life were missing. My job? Gone. My address? Forgotten, though I could picture the house. And most unsettling of all—I didn’t remember *him*. The bloke who, according to the doctors, hadn’t left my side.
The man who claimed to be my fiancé. *Oliver*, he said his name was. I stared at him and felt nothing but cold confusion.
“Why doesn’t she remember *me*? She remembers everyone else—why not me?” Oliver demanded.
The doctor shrugged. “Memory loss is unpredictable. Some things stay, some vanish. Give it time.”
“We’ve been together over a year! Engaged! Wedding plans underway—what am I supposed to do now?”
“Talk to her. Photos, stories—it might jog her memory.”
“*Might*?” Oliver’s voice cracked.
“She loved you once,” the doctor said before leaving. “Maybe she will again.”
Oliver took that to heart. Every visit, he brought photos, gifts he’d supposedly given me, recounted our first meeting, dates, moving in together. But—
“I’m sorry. None of this feels familiar,” I admitted.
“It’s alright. We’ll get through this,” he said, squeezing my hand.
Mum, of course, was relentless. “Why didn’t you *tell* me about Oliver?” she huffed.
“Mum, I *don’t remember*.”
“He says you were going to announce the engagement after the proposal, but the accident happened first. But you’ve always been secretive—honestly!”
Days passed like this—Oliver spinning tales, Mum grumbling—until the doctors finally discharged me. Oliver collected me, and we drove to what he called *our* house.
All I cared about was seeing *Biscuit*, my terrier. Missed that little scamp more than words could say.
The moment we pulled up, I heard him barking—frantic, excited. But as Oliver opened the door, Biscuit lunged, snarling, snapping at his ankles.
“Get him *off* me!” Oliver bellowed, kicking out.
“Biscuit! *Here!*” I ordered. He obeyed, tail wagging, but still growling at Oliver.
“Lock him outside,” Oliver snapped.
“Why?”
“Because he’s trying to *maul* me!”
“But you said we *lived* together. Why would he act like this?”
“Dunno. Never liked me. Your mum looked after him while you were in hospital—maybe he’s forgotten me.”
*Doubtful.* Biscuit hadn’t forgotten *me*.
That night, I slept in the spare room with Biscuit curled at my feet. Oliver’s excuses didn’t add up. He bought me a new phone but changed the number—claimed my old one was destroyed. Couldn’t reach my best mate, *Eleanor*.
Worse, he kept pushing for a quick wedding. “I love you too much to wait,” he’d say. But how could I marry a stranger?
Then, one afternoon, I overheard him arguing at the door. “Not *yet*!” he hissed before slamming it.
“Who was that?” I asked.
“Wrong address.”
When he left for work, I tore through his things, searching for answers. Nothing. Then—a knock.
*Eleanor.*
“He wouldn’t let me near you,” she whispered.
“Something’s not right,” I admitted.
“Kate—listen. *Oliver doesn’t exist.*”
“What?”
“I checked. No records, no socials—nothing. Either you hid him from everyone, or he’s lying.”
Biscuit’s snarling made sense now. But before we could act, a courier arrived with an envelope. Inside—a marriage contract. If we divorced, Oliver got *half* my assets.
My grandmother’s inheritance—a small fortune.
“Bloody *conman*,” Eleanor spat.
We called the police. When Oliver returned, Biscuit went berserk. The moment he stepped inside, officers swarmed in.
His real name? *Gavin.* Ex-nurse, worked at a care home.
“Your grandmother stayed there,” the officer said. “He must’ve learned about your inheritance.”
As they hauled him away, screaming curses, Biscuit trotted over, tail wagging.
If not for him, I might’ve signed my life away.
**Lesson learned:** Trust your dog. And your gut. Both know a rat when they smell one.
