When the Past Stops Asking
1143 Words
The knock comes at 2:17 a.m.
Not loud. Not urgent.
Just firm enough to say I know you are awake.
I sit up in bed, heart already misbehaving. I don’t check the time. I don’t need to. My body is alert in a way that feels practiced, like this moment was rehearsed somewhere deep inside me long before now.
The knock comes again.
Three times.
My apartment is silent except for the hum of electricity in the walls. No voices outside. No footsteps retreating. Whoever it is isn’t nervous. That scares me more than anything else.
I swing my legs over the side of the bed and stand. The floor is cold. Grounding. Real. I move slowly, deliberately, each step toward the door feeling heavier than the last.
Don’t open it, a voice in my head whispers.
You know what happens when you do.
My hand pauses inches from the handle.
I laugh softly, breathless. “You are being dramatic,” I tell myself. “This isn’t that door.”
But my pulse disagrees.
I open it anyway.
The hallway light spills into my apartment, cutting the darkness cleanly in two. For a split second, there’s no one there. Just empty space and the faint smell of rain.
Then I look up.
You are standing there like you never left.
Older, yes. Thinner. Sharper around the edges. But unmistakably you. The same eyes that used to look at me like I was something fragile and dangerous all at once. The same mouth I learned how to read before I learned how to trust it.
My lungs forget their job.
“Oh,” I breathe.
You flinch.
That tiny reaction cracks something open inside me. You were bracing for anger. Or fear. Or denial. Not recognition.
“Hi,” you say quietly.
The word lands between us like a dropped glass.
I should slam the door. I should demand answers. I should do something dramatic and self-protective and sensible.
Instead, I just stare.
Your name sits on my tongue, heavy and electric. I don’t say it. I’m afraid that if I do, it’ll pull everything else out with it.
“You shouldn’t be here,” I manage.
A corner of your mouth lifts, not a smile. More like a memory of one. “You used to say that too.”
My chest tightens.
Of course I did.
I step back without thinking, and you take it as permission. You always did. You step inside, careful, like you are entering a space that might reject you if you move too fast.
The door closes behind you with a soft click.
Too soft.
The air between us is thick. Charged. Familiar in a way that makes my skin prickle. You stand there, hands loose at your sides, eyes moving over me like you are taking inventory. Making sure I’m real.
“You look… better,” you say finally. Then, quieter, “Healthier.”
“That’s generous.”
You nod like you expected the deflection. Like you have missed it.
“I didn’t know if you’d open the door.”
“I didn’t know if you’d be real,” I shoot back.
Something passes over your face then, pain, sharp and unguarded. It makes my stomach drop.
“I hoped you wouldn’t remember me,” you admit. “And I was terrified that you wouldn’t.”
I swallow hard. “You have been texting me.”
“Yes.”
“You followed me.”
“I watched out for you,” you correct. Then, softer, “The way I used to.”
The room feels smaller. I move toward the couch and sit because my legs are done pretending they are fine. You stay standing, like you don’t trust yourself to relax yet.
“Why now?” I ask. “Why show up?”
You hesitate.
That hesitation tells me more than any confession could.
“Because you are remembering without me,” you say. “And that’s dangerous.”
A chill crawls up my spine. “For who?”
“For you,” you say immediately. Then, after a beat, “And for me.”
I laugh, short and disbelieving. “You don’t get to decide what’s dangerous for me.”
“I used to,” you say.
Silence.
It stretches, thin and painful.
Fragments start pressing in, uninvited, sharp-edged.
Your hand gripping mine in a hospital hallway.
Your voice breaking when you said my name.
The way you slept lighter than I did, like you were standing guard.
I press my fingers to my temple. “Stop.”
You are beside me instantly, crouching in front of me like instinct never left you. You don’t touch me. You know better.
“I’m sorry,” you say. “I shouldn’t have come like this.”
I look at you then. Really look.
“You loved me,” I say.
It isn’t a question.
Your jaw tightens. “I still do.”
The words don’t feel like a confession. They feel like a fact you have been carrying quietly, the way people carry scars they have stopped expecting sympathy for.
My throat burns.
“I forgot you,” I whisper.
“You didn’t forget,” you correct gently. “You let go.”
Something inside me snaps.
“No,” I say, standing abruptly. “You don’t get to rewrite this. I didn’t let go. I lost time. I lost pieces of myself. I lost,”
“You lost the night you opened the door,” you interrupt.
The room goes very still.
I stare at you, heart in my ears. “You said you wouldn’t talk about it.”
“I said I wouldn’t force you to remember,” you reply. “There’s a difference.”
I shake my head. “I can’t do this. Not tonight.”
You nod, immediately. “Okay.”
No argument. No pressure.
That hurts more than resistance would have.
You stand and move toward the door, pausing with your hand on the handle. You don’t look back when you speak.
“When you are ready,” you say, “I will tell you what you asked me to promise never to tell.”
My breath catches. “And if I’m never ready?”
You finally turn.
Your eyes are wet, but steady.
“Then I will keep protecting you,” you say. “Even if it means you hate me for it.”
The door closes behind you.
I slide down until I’m sitting on the floor, heart pounding, mind on fire.
I remember your name now.
I remember the way you said mine like it mattered.
And I remember one final thing, crashing in all at once, undeniable and devastating:
I didn’t forget you because I stopped loving you.
I forgot you because loving you almost destroyed us both.
- Writer
