The Apartment That Knows Me
James stepped into the apartment, the place that was supposed to be his, but it felt unfamiliar. His father and his best friends followed him inside, their presence grounding him, yet doing little to fill the emptiness in his chest. The doctor had suggested that coming back here might help jog his memory, that being surrounded by familiar things could trigger something, anything. But as James stood in the doorway, taking in the white walls and the lived-in space, nothing came.
He took a slow breath and stepped further in. Somehow, instinctively, he knew the layout. The kitchen was to the left of the living room, and it didn’t have a downdraft. If he fried something, he’d have to open the windows. The hallway to his right led to the single bedroom and bathroom. He knew there was an old washer and dryer behind the closet doors in the hallway, and he had the distinct impression they were loud. These were facts, things he knew. But they weren’t memories. They didn’t carry any emotions, no warmth, no attachment.
Fleamont, standing just behind him, placed a hand on his shoulder. “Do you remember anything?” His voice was careful, hopeful.
James swallowed. He wanted to say yes. He should be able to say yes. But he shook his head. “No,” he admitted, voice tight.
He moved toward the bookshelf, letting his fingers trail over the books, a habit that felt familiar even if the books themselves didn’t. There was an emptiness here, something missing, though he couldn’t say what. He frowned, scanning the shelves, searching for something he couldn’t name.
Sirius, who had been standing near the window with his arms crossed, finally spoke. “It’ll come back,” he said, but there was something stiff in his voice, something strained.
James turned to him, his frustration boiling over. “What if it doesn’t?” His voice cracked slightly, and he hated the vulnerability in it. He wasn’t supposed to be this lost. He wasn’t supposed to feel like a stranger in his own life. “What if this, this blank space is permanent?”
Sirius doesn’t know what to say. James can tell by the way his expression flickers, by the way his eyes dart away like he’s searching for an answer that he's not sure exists. And maybe it doesn’t. Maybe no one knows what to say because no one’s been through this before, not in their circle, not in their lives. He’s the first one to lose himself, and no one knows how to help him find his way back.
James exhales slowly, trying to steady himself. The walls feel too white, too empty, like they should be filled with something more. He moves toward the kitchen, opening a cupboard at random, hoping for something, anything, to spark recognition. His eyes land on a blue mug. It’s a strange-looking thing, slightly chipped on the handle, the glaze uneven. It doesn’t look like something he’d pick out for himself.
He picks it up, turning it over in his hands. He doesn’t remember it, not at all, but he likes it. There’s something about the weight of it, the way it fits in his hands, it feels good to hold. Comforting, even.
The moment is broken when Sirius and Remus step into the kitchen. Sirius stops in his tracks the second he sees the mug, and then a slow smile spreads across his face. “Well, well,” he drawls, stepping closer. “You do remember something.”
James looks up, frowning. “What?”
“The mug,” Sirius says, gesturing toward it like it means something more than just being a random piece of kitchenware.
"Do you remember how you got it?" Sirius asks, his voice tinged with something, hope, maybe, or something heavier underneath.
“Sirius,” Remus says sharply, his voice low but firm, a clear warning.
“What?” Sirius scoffs, shooting Remus an exasperated look. “I just asked about the mug.”
Remus doesn’t look convinced, but he lets out a quiet sigh, shaking his head.
James glances back at the mug. His fingers tighten around it instinctively, as if his hands remember something his mind doesn’t. But no matter how much he stares at it, waiting for a memory to surface, nothing comes. Just emptiness.
He swallows. "No," he admits. "I don’t remember it. But I... like it. That’s all."
Sirius smirks, though there's a flicker of something else in his eyes before he turns away. "Figures."
James doesn’t know what that means.
Remus, standing off to the side with his arms crossed, watches the exchange carefully. "Don't push yourself," he says gently. "Things will come back naturally. Just give it time."
James forces a smile. Time. He’s heard that a hundred times already. But how much time? And what if he never remembers?
What if there are things he’s not meant to remember?
Fleamont steps into the kitchen, his gaze settling on James with quiet concern before offering a warm smile. “Would you like a tour of the place?”
James hesitates for a second, then nods. “Yeah. That’d be good.”
Fleamont leads him through the apartment, while Sirius and Remus tag along, filling in the gaps with details James wouldn't have thought to ask.
“The sink in the bathroom always drips,” Remus points out as they pass the hallway. “You have to make sure you close it properly, or it'll drive you insane.”
“And don’t move the couch,” Sirius adds as they step into the living room. “There's a huge burn mark on the carpet from when someone dropped—”
Fleamont turns to him with a knowing look, arms crossed. “Dropped what, exactly?”
Sirius clears his throat. “My… banana frost flambé. Of course.”
James narrows his eyes, watching as Sirius's face twists into an awkward expression, his lips pressed together like he's holding something back. He wasn’t talking about flamed bananas for sure.
Fleamont sighs but doesn’t press further.
They move on, stopping in the bedroom.
“One of the windows doesn’t open properly,” Remus reminds him, tapping the glass lightly. “Don’t try to force it, or you’ll break it completely.”
James looks around the room, taking in the space that’s supposed to be his. The bed looks… uninviting. The entire apartment, really, feels empty, like it’s missing something essential.
As Sirius and Remus bicker James understands that they know this place. They know every detail, every flaw, every little thing James himself should know but doesn’t.
It hits him then, the reason they know so much isn’t just because they’re his friends. It’s because they’re here. Constantly.
They must have spent countless hours in this apartment, making themselves at home, leaving their marks on it the way he must have once. He watches Sirius lean against the wall, comfortably flipping through a stray book he’s picked up from the table like it belongs to him. Remus straightens a crooked picture on the wall without thinking.
James’s throat tightens.
His friends haven’t left him behind. He might not remember, but they’re still here. They’re still his.
It’s a quiet kind of comfort, one that settles deep in his bones. If they haven’t left, if they’ve stayed through all of this, through him forgetting, then maybe… maybe he isn’t as lost as he feels.
Eventually, Fleamont turns to him. “Do you want to go home with me and your mother, or do you want to stay here?”
James hesitates. He doesn’t want to stay in the apartment, it feels hollow, unfamiliar. But at the same time… something in his gut tells him that this place is in here. He just doesn’t remember why yet.
“I’ll stay,” James decides.
Fleamont nods, reaching into his pocket and handing James a copy of the keys. James turns them over in his palm and notices a small snake keychain attached. He frowns slightly. It doesn’t seem like something he’d put on his keys… but he doesn’t say anything.
Then, Fleamont pulls out a box from his jacket and hands it to him. “Since your old phone was lost in the accident, your mother and I figured you could use a new one.”
James looks down at the box, then back at his father. “Thanks.”
Fleamont gives him a pat on the shoulder before stepping toward the door. James watches him leave, the weight of his decision settling over him as the door clicks shut behind his father.
As soon as Fleamont is gone Remus asks if he's hungry, and James realizes just how exhausted he is. Not just physically but mentally. He feels like a guest in his own home, fumbling through a life he can't remember. So when Sirius and Remus offer food, he agrees without much thought, grateful for the distraction.
Remus turns to Sirius. "What was the restaurant they liked?" he asks, casual and easy, like it’s an obvious question.
Sirius barely hesitates before replying. "That Chinese place. We ordered from there everytime we came over. There’s probably a menu in the kitchen somewhere."
They.
The word sticks in James’s brain, an itch he can’t scratch. They.
His first thought is that they’re talking about his parents. Maybe Euphemia and Fleamont used to order from this place when they visited. Or maybe it’s Peter and one of his girlfriends. That would make sense, right?
But something about the way Remus said it, so naturally, without a second thought, makes James feel like he’s missing something.
He swallows, forcing himself to ignore it before his head starts throbbing again.
Remus and Sirius move into the kitchen, rummaging through drawers, and James listens to the familiar sounds of their bickering as they search for the menu.
"I swear we left it here," Remus mutters.
"Yeah, well, maybe you left it there, but I—"
"Sirius, shut up and check the counter."
Eventually, Remus finds it tucked between some old receipts, and soon enough, James is sitting on the living room floor, eating takeout Chinese food with his two best mates.
For a little while, everything feels normal.
The warmth of the food, the banter, the easy presence of his friends, it’s comfortable. Familiar, even. He listens to Sirius and Remus argue about whether or not fortune cookies are a scam, watches as Sirius dramatically struggles with chopsticks, and it feels like nothing has changed.
Like he’s still James.
Like he still knows himself.
But the thought lingers.
"They."
James doesn’t ask. He doesn’t want to. There’s so much he doesn’t remember, so many pieces missing, and he’s already exhausted from trying to put them together.
So he pushes it down, focuses on the food, on his friends, on the moment.
For now, that has to be enough.
The following week is a brutal one for James.
He learns quickly that his life had been much busier than he’d expected. Between recovering from the accident and trying to find his footing in a world that still felt unfamiliar, he discovers that he’d been in grad school, working his way toward becoming a patent attorney. The realization sits uncomfortably in his chest. Patent law. It sounds so rigid, so calculated. He doesn’t know why, but it doesn’t feel like him.
His college had excused him for a few weeks after the accident, giving him time to get himself back together, but even without the classes, James feels the stress. His closet is filled with suits; far too many for someone his age. The stiff fabric and muted colors feel foreign to him. He tries to imagine himself wearing them outside of a wedding or a funeral and fails.
Then there’s the job. A big law firm. The kind with polished marble floors and hushed conversations in sleek offices. He learns that they, too, had been understanding of his situation. His superior, a woman in her mid-forties, had been particularly compassionate.
"If you need anything, James, anything at all," she tells him during their first meeting back at the firm. Her voice is honeyed, smooth, the kind that lingers just a little too long. "I know how hard this must be for you. I could come by, help you get settled. Cook for you, even."
James blinks at her, taken aback.
Cook?
He pictures her in his tiny apartment, standing in his cramped kitchen that still smells faintly of burnt grease, and the image is so bizarre that he nearly laughs. He can’t picture anyone in his kitchen, much less this woman in her expensive heels and perfectly manicured nails.
"That’s… really generous of you, but I think I’ll be okay," he says, offering a polite smile.
She tilts her head, the corners of her mouth curving in amusement. "Oh, James. You really don’t remember anything, do you?"
There’s something in her tone that makes his skin prickle, but he doesn’t dwell on it. She’s just being kind. Supportive. There’s nothing weird about that.
So he brushes it off, shakes her hand, and leaves, trying to ignore the way her fingers linger just a little too long.
The only thing that seems to calm him down is the U2 playlist he finds saved on his TV.
It feels like a lifeline. A piece of something familiar, even if he doesn’t know why.
He keeps playing With or Without You on repeat. He doesn’t remember listening to U2 before, but somehow, he knows all the lyrics. And every time that song plays, every time that haunting melody fills his empty apartment, he finds himself crying without knowing why.
It makes no sense.
The song isn’t sad. Not in the way that should leave him wrecked like this. But something about it cuts deep, as if his body remembers something his mind doesn’t.
In the quiet hours of the night, when exhaustion weighs heavy but sleep refuses to come, he presses play again. And again.
And when the chorus swells, when the words "I can’t live, with or without you" echo through the speakers, James buries his face in his hands and sobs.
By the time James reaches his second week of therapy, the weight of everything is pressing down on him harder than before.
"I don’t know what I like anymore," he admits, staring at the floor. His fingers twist in his lap, restless, like they’re searching for something to hold on to. "I don’t know if I want to go back to school, or work, or any of it. I know I was doing these things before, but… I don’t know if I even wanted to."
His therapist listens patiently, letting him spill his thoughts without interruption.
"It feels like I’m incomplete," he continues, his voice quieter now. "Like there’s this missing part of me, and until I find it, I won’t be able to move on."
Saying it out loud makes it feel even more real. More painful.
It isn’t just about school or work. It’s everything. The way nothing quite fits, the way his apartment feels like a stranger’s home, the way he keeps reaching for something in the dark without knowing what it is.
His therapist studies him for a moment before speaking.
"James, what if the problem isn’t that you’ve lost something, but that you’ve changed?"
He frowns. "What do you mean?"
"You’ve been focusing on trying to get back to who you were before the accident," she explains gently. "But what if that person isn’t who you are anymore? People change all the time, James. Sometimes gradually, sometimes because of something big, like what happened to you. Maybe instead of forcing yourself to fit into your old life, you take a step back and explore something new. See what feels right now, rather than what used to feel right before."
James exhales sharply, rubbing a hand over his face. He wants to tell her she’s wrong, that he just needs to remember and everything will click back into place.
But… what if she’s right?
What if the reason nothing fits is because he’s not supposed to fit there anymore?
He sighs, leaning back against the couch. "So what do I do?"
"Pause," she says simply. "Try something different. Let yourself explore other opportunities. The answers will come when you stop chasing them."
James doesn’t know if that’s true. He doesn’t know if he even wants to take that risk.
...
Fleamont and Euphemia sit across from James in his apartment, their expressions filled with quiet concern. They’ve always been supportive, always given him the freedom to make his own choices, but this time, it’s different.
"Son," Fleamont starts, his voice careful, measured. "Maybe it’s time to take a step back."
James looks up from where he’s been absently tracing patterns on the couch. "A step back?"
"From everything," Euphemia clarifies gently. "School, work… You’re putting so much pressure on yourself to return to a life you don’t even recognize right now."
James opens his mouth to protest, but the words don’t come. Because… they’re right, aren’t they?
"You don’t have to have all the answers today," she continues. "Or tomorrow, or even next week. You need time, James. Time to breathe, to figure out who you are now, not just who you were before the accident."
"But what if I don’t figure it out?" The words slip out before he can stop them, raw and vulnerable.
Fleamont leans forward, placing a steadying hand on his shoulder. "You will. But not by forcing yourself into a life that doesn’t feel like yours right now. Give yourself the space to find it again. Or to build something new."
James exhales slowly, letting their words settle. He’s been so caught up in what he should be doing, in the weight of expectations, that he hasn’t given himself the grace to simply be.
Maybe they’re right. Maybe he needs to stop trying so hard to chase something that keeps slipping through his fingers.
He nods, the decision settling into his bones. "Okay."
Within five weeks of the accident, James drops everything. His job, his classes, he lets it all go. And for the first time in what feels like forever, he lets himself just exist.
He watches the sunset from his window, thinking about how he wants to see the sun go down upon his pain, so that when it rises again, maybe, just maybe, he’ll feel whole.
And in the quiet of his apartment, he starts listening to other U2 songs. He lets the songs fill the silence, lets the lyrics sink into the empty spaces inside him.
And he waits.