untitled

“i’ve never been good with explanations. words tend to pause when i ask them to carry too much. so i learned another way to remember— by holding onto what stayed. the sound of her voice, for instance. a little higher than mine, never rushed, as if it knew it was being listened to and didn’t need to hurry. the way her eyes closed in slightly when she smiled— not out of effort, but recognition, like she had already arrived at something i was still trying to say. her hands were soft. not careful, not uncertain. just kind— the kind of touch that feels familiar even the first time, as if it had never learned how to hurt. sometimes, on sun-washed afternoons, i sit alone on the veranda. the light settles where it wants, the floor warms, and the grass gives the air a smell that feels older than the moment. and that’s when it happens. not suddenly. not clearly. just a quiet shift— like the world leaning closer. there’s something in the air then, something gentle, almost recognizable, and for a brief moment my breathing forgets where i am, as if it remembers something else instead. not a face. not a memory i can hold up and ask to be believed. just a presence— resting beside the moment, unannounced, asking nothing from me. i don’t call it imagination. i don’t call it longing. those words feel too small, too eager to explain. all i know is this— whatever it was, whoever it belonged to, it was real enough to remain. and sometimes, that is proof enough.”