Wheeling Gull Isle this isn't a stain of red wine, i'm bleeding love

She questioned him then – the inquiry he knew was to come but dreaded. He paused, the thoughts of his mind racing, though his expression remained blank as he stared at her. It burned to know she did not remember him – the only spark of hope he could even try to hold on to would be that she had known his face from what she considered a dream. Was the old Aria in there, somewhere?
 
“We didn’t meet in your dreams,” was what he responded with, his tongue flicking out over his lips in contemplation. How did one explain to another that she had forgotten part of her life? A life where she had seemed anything but content in? “We knew each other, once. We were close. I don’t know what happened or why you don’t remember – but you seem happy now. With Komodo.” He could not help but tag on the last line, the twitch of his brow and lip the only indication he offered to exactly how much the golden male at her side bothered him. It should have been him.