What My Body Remembers Before I Do
1130 Words
I don’t go home.
I walk.
Not the cute, reflective kind of walk people take in movies when they are “processing.” This is the kind where your legs move faster than your thoughts, like if you stop you will fall apart in public and nobody needs to see that.
The city feels louder now. Sharper. Every sound rubs against my nerves like sandpaper. A car door slams and my shoulders jerk so hard it’s embarrassing. Someone brushes past me and my chest locks up like I have been caught doing something illegal.
I keep going.
My phone vibrates in my pocket. I don’t check it. I already know it’s you, asking if I’m okay in that careful way people use when they know the answer is no.
I don’t want comfort yet. I want clarity. Or destruction. Whichever comes first.
By the time I reach my apartment, my hands are numb. I fumble with the keys like they are foreign objects, like I have never lived here before. The door finally opens and I step inside, locking it behind me with a click that sounds too final.
The silence hits immediately.
No distractions. No witnesses.
I drop my bag on the floor and lean against the door, sliding down until I’m sitting, knees pulled to my chest like I’m trying to make myself smaller. Safer. Unnoticeable.
My heart won’t slow down.
You are here, I tell myself. You are grown. You are alive. Nothing is happening.
My body disagrees.
My skin feels tight. Too aware of itself. Like it remembers being touched in a way my mind still refuses to translate. My throat closes again, familiar now, like an old enemy I never learned how to fight.
I squeeze my eyes shut.
That’s when it happens.
Not a memory.
A sensation.
Pressure on my wrist. Not painful, just firm enough to remind me I can’t move. My stomach flips violently and I gasp, sucking in air like I have been punched.
“No,” I whisper. “Not yet.”
But my body doesn’t negotiate.
My palms sweat. My legs tense. My spine goes rigid like it’s bracing for impact. I can almost feel the room change, the air heavier, the light dimmer, even though I know I’m still sitting on my apartment floor in my own clothes, in my own life.
A voice flickers at the edge of my awareness.
Not words. Just tone.
Low. Controlled. Familiar in the worst way.
I press my hands over my ears.
“Stop,” I say out loud, because silence has never protected me anyway.
The pressure fades slightly, but the aftermath stays, a tremor running through my limbs, a buzzing under my skin like exposed wiring.
I stagger to my feet and head to the bathroom, splashing cold water on my face until my reflection sharpens.
I barely recognise her.
My eyes look older. Not wiser. Just tired. Like they have been holding secrets without consent.
“You survived,” I tell the girl in the mirror. “You are still here.”
She doesn’t look convinced.
My phone buzzes again.
This time, I answer.
“Hey,” you say softly.
I hate how safe your voice feels. I hate that I need it.
“I think it’s starting,” I admit.
A pause. “Are you alone?”
“Yes.”
“Do you want to be?”
I consider lying. I don’t.
“No.”
“I’m on my way.”
The call ends before I can overthink it.
I curl up on the couch, wrapping my arms around myself like that might hold the pieces in place. My body keeps reacting in waves, tension, release, tension again, like it’s replaying something without visuals.
When there’s a knock at the door, I flinch hard enough to pull a muscle.
“It’s me,” you call through the door. “You are safe.”
Safe.
The word feels fragile, but I unlock the door anyway.
You step inside slowly, giving me space, eyes scanning my face like you are reading a language you learned a long time ago. You don’t touch me. You don’t crowd me. You just sit on the edge of the couch, close enough to matter, far enough to respect the fear buzzing between us.
“I didn’t remember anything,” I say. “But my body did.”
You nod. “That’s common.”
I huff out a bitter laugh. “Love that for me.”
You almost smile. Almost.
“I keep thinking,” I continue, “that maybe if I remember it all, it will finally stop hurting.”
You meet my gaze. “Sometimes it hurts more before it hurts less.”
“Figures.”
Silence stretches again, but this time it doesn’t feel like avoidance. It feels like preparation.
“There’s something else,” you say.
My chest tightens. “Of course there is.”
“You have been asking the wrong question.”
I frown. “Meaning?”
“You keep asking what happened,” you explain. “But the real question is why it stayed buried for so long.”
I swallow. “Why?”
“Because someone helped keep it buried.”
The room tilts.
“What do you mean, someone helped?” I ask slowly.
You hesitate, again. And again, it tells me everything.
“Not everyone failed you,” you say carefully. “But someone chose silence over truth.”
My stomach drops.
A name hovers at the edge of my thoughts. Dangerous. Familiar. Impossible.
“No,” I whisper. “You are wrong.”
“I wish I were.”
The ache in my chest sharpens into something angrier. Something colder.
“So not only did it happen,” I say, voice shaking, “but someone knew?”
“Yes.”
“And let me forget?”
“They told themselves it was protecting you.”
I laugh, loud, broken, ugly. “That’s insane.”
“That’s guilt,” you correct.
I stand abruptly, pacing now, my hands tangling in my hair.
“My entire life,” I say, “I thought I was dramatic. Sensitive. Damaged for no reason.”
You watch me carefully. “You were reacting to a wound no one let you name.”
I stop moving.
The room feels different now. Not smaller. Sharper. Focused.
“Tell me who,” I say.
You don’t answer.
“Tell me,” I repeat, this time with steel in my voice.
“I can,” you say. “But once I do, things change.”
I meet your eyes.
“They already have.”
You exhale slowly.
And when you finally say the name, it doesn’t sound real.
It sounds like betrayal.
- Writer
