The Memory He Didn’t Earn
There was a stretch of months where I was seeing him every week. I didn’t know at the time that I was dissociating almost constantly — that my body was there but my mind wasn’t really registering anything beyond the rituals I clung to. I’d been taking too many antihistamines without realizing the fog they’d dropped me into, and he became the anchor I latched onto without ever calling it that.
He never really asked about me, and I didn’t offer much. That dynamic made it easy. Comfortable, even. The intimacy was always tilted in his direction — everything personal had to do with him. But somehow that felt safe when I was working so hard not to be seen anyway. When I think back to that time now, I don’t remember much. Just a few cold mornings. A black sweatshirt. His hands. The sound of my own voice, faint and strange. Mostly I just remember him.
It’s weird to realize that someone who barely looked at you might be the only real imprint left from an entire season of your life.
I don’t think he’ll ever know how much space he took up in my memory — not because he earned it, but because nothing else could stick.