This is something I got into my head and once it got there, it never wanted to leave. Trust me, I tried to ignore the urge to write this. I really, really did. But it never went away, and I was subsequently forced to write it.

There's a little thing you need to know about me: I'm pretty bad with updating frequently. I'm going to try-I mean really try-with this fic, because it's downright cruel of me to start a fic like this and never finish it. I'm aware of that. But be patient with me, please, and know that any support you give this fic will probably help me in the long-run when it comes to finishing it and updating it and working on it.

I have some ideas as to where I want this fic to go, but enough of my rambling and carry on.

Disclaimer: I don't own Pitch Perfect. Still.

She isn't sure how it happened, really. One minute they had been out for a nice evening somewhere upscale and fancy and totally unlike them, and the next minute she was in the back of an ambulance, holding his hand as the paramedics warned her that his final moments "could be tonight." He slipped into a coma, then. It had happened so quickly, Beca wasn't sure what she was supposed to do. For four months, she made time in her schedule for him. She sat at his bedside watching him, waiting for him. When classes were particularly dull-which, let's face it, was pretty much always-she would skip class and visit him. Talk to him. Beg him to wake up.

But nothing ever happened. The doctors told her things weren't looking well for him, but that didn't stop her. She would tell him everything. She told him about the Bellas and how they had won Regionals and were prepared to kick Treble ass at Finals. She told him how Luke had graduated early and put her in charge of the studio. She told him how she loved him, how she would always love him, how she had never thought she would ever love someone as weird and geeky as him. Sometimes, she would watch movies with him. His favorites, of course, in the off-chance that their scores would stir him from his coma. She'd seen The Breakfast Club in that small hospital room at least twenty times now, and she'd guess that she'd seen E.T. a good ten times, as well. Still, nothing happened.

"Jesse," Beca laughs brokenly, "you have to remember me."

The doctors had told her he might not, and that terrifies her.

The boy's eyes narrow, his mouth curving into a confused frown as the brunette girl grasps his hand. He looks down at it for a moment and considers pulling his hand away. He is silent for several moments, and Beca takes this silence as cause for concern.

"Jesse," she is begging him now, "Jesse, I-"

"Who are you?" he asks her, his voice sounding harsh and cold to her ears.

She pulls back, blinking rapidly as tears threaten her eyes. He stares at her as if he had never seen her before, as if their past year together never existed. All their movie nights, all their witty banter, all their inside jokes... nothing. She sighs heavily, wiping tears from her eyes as she stares at his battered body.

She would never have believed she would fall for such a weirdo, but she had. She had come to love the way he made her laugh, as if it was the easiest thing in the world. She had come to love the way he smiled at her, the way he sang, the way he told her he loved her. It was always in little ways; words were hardly used. He'd remember something she had mentioned in passing weeks ago- like how she used to love going to the zoo as a child. Weeks later, he'd show up at her door and they'd be on their way to the zoo. It was always the little things that made her love him so much, like the way his eyes brightened-more so than usual-every time he saw her, or the way he mouthed the words to his favorite movies.

She would miss that about him.

No, Beca. No. He's not dying on you. He's not dead. He's alive. He's going to live.

"It's me," she says, praying that he will suddenly remember her, "Beca."

"Beca," Jesse repeats. God, she loves to hear him say her name.

"Yeah," her smile lasts for half a second. "I, uh... I'm your... we... we were dating."

Jesse stares at her blankly, and for a moment she's afraid he thinks that she's kidding. "We... we were?"

She manages a nod and smiles sadly. It physically pains her to hear him question the existence of their relationship. He doesn't remember anything, it seemed, and it takes all of her strength to speak. Her voice is quiet as she chokes out: "You... you don't remember, do you?"

He panics. His body convulses, and nurses rush in. She is herded away from him and out of the room, and her desperate pleas are slowly silenced as strong hands grip her shoulders. Hands she knows well, and hands she doesn't want to be holding her. Not now. Now, the only person she wants to touch, to be with, is the boy lying on the hospital bed entering some state of God-knows-what. She shrugs her father away, ducking under his reach with her arms wrapped tightly across her chest. She wipes tears from her eyes and slumps down into a bench outside of his room. She hears her father settle down beside her.

He knows better than to offer physical comfort now; she's already resisted once, and she won't react kindly to a second attempt. He folds his hands together and stares at the ground, and the bench is quiet save for Beca's poor attempt at stifling her tears.

"Bec, I know it's hard… they warned you he wouldn't remember anything. You had to prepare yourself. Did you… at all?"

She ignores him. It's what she does best. He can tell that she didn't prepare herself—adequately, at least. And she hadn't. She hadn't been prepared enough to hear his voice (his sweet, angelic voice) ask her so confusedly who she was. He was always the one who knew her. He had only seen her for a brief moment that first morning at Barden, but he recognized her immediately at the radio station later that day. He had always remembered her.

And now he had forgotten.

Her father talks more. It's what he does best. She still ignores him, internalizing her anger as he tries to comfort her (and poorly, might she add).

He falls into silence, and she's thankful. She's thankful that she doesn't have to drown out his words with an internal monologue of her own (one that blames herself, pities herself, and frets constantly over Jesse Swanson), and she draws her knees to her chest with her feet propped strategically on the bench.

Dr. Mitchell sighs and heaves his shoulders in defeat, shaking his head as he looks at his daughter.

"You can't just sit here all day, Beca." Yes I can, and I will. "You've gotta get out, go to class..." I don't have to do anything. "He'll still be here when you get back." No he won't. He's not here now. That's not Jesse in there. That's not my weirdo.

Once he sees that he's getting nowhere (her facial expression has become one of anger and bitterness), he stands up. She hesitates a moment before rising to her feet and giving her father a hug. He kisses her forehead and whispers an "I love you" as he heads back home.

She's alone now, and she's grateful for the silence that she's left with. She sinks into the bench, laying across it as she tries to focus on anything but the sound of the hospital's machines. She has no idea what's going on in Jesse's room; the blinds are closed and the door is shut. Nurses cast her pity glances, and she does her best not to scowl at them. They mean well, they do. But they don't know her, and they don't know Jesse. They have no right to pity her.

She's fine. Really.

Sure, her boyfriend just woke from a coma and didn't remember her, but she was fine.

She'd manage.

The door beside her opens, and she scrambles quickly to her feet. She tries to remain calm, but her eyes betray her visage. Hopeful eyes meet sympathetic, and she shifts her weight nervously.

"Well?" she prompts.

"He had a seizure," the doctor tells her, "nothing major." He goes on to tell her that his brain damage is minimal and that, given a few weeks, there is no reason that he shouldn't return to his normal routine. He reminds her that he will only be awake for minutes at a time for several days.

She asks her about his memory.

He pauses.

She ducks her head, muttering that she understands.

He tries to reassure her, tell her that things may change. She doesn't hear him. She isn't listening anymore.

She turns her head towards his room, staring at the closed blinds. The doctor motions to someone inside, and the blinds are flipped. She can see him—her perfect, wonderful Jesse Swanson, lying on that godforsaken hospital bed. She nearly falls apart there, a sob escaping her throat as she recoils.

She can't take it.

She covers her hand over her mouth and issues a meek apology. He nods sympathetically and brushes it off easily. She likes that about him. He doesn't try to comfort her; he gives her what she wants to know, and nothing more. She blinks in thanks.

He reminds her that visiting hours will soon be over, and that she should say whatever she wants to say now.

Beca steps inside the room, cautiously making her way over to his side. She reaches for his hand instantly. Her face falls as he pulls back. She hears the doctor telling her that she should expect a similar response for a few days, but she doesn't acknowledge this. She is too hurt to do anything else, and her hands return to her sides. Her chest heaves as she maintains her composure, and she can hear the nurses in the room wrestling with the idea of comforting her. She steps back, shaking her head quickly.

She can't do this.

The doctor pleads with her now and tells her that Jesse will need some time.

She can't hear him.

She turns away and flees from the room, marching down the hall with her arms crossed and her hands tucked against her rib.

She fights tears as she waits in the elevator, forcing herself to laugh to prove to the other visitors that she isn't in too much pain.

But she is. Oh, she is.

She reaches her car without crying. She climbs in without crying, and even manages to lock the door without crying.

But as she looks over at the passenger's seat—at Jesse's seat—she throws herself against the steering wheel and cries.

Reviews are much loved, and I hope to have an update later this week.

(Don't hold me to that.)

(I'm regretting saying that already.)

(You can bother me to update it by messaging me here or via Tumblr: veitengram)

Thank you for reading.

- Hannah