The Things My Body Remembers
1047 Words
Some memories arrive gently.
And then there are the ones that don’t knock, they kick the door in and stand there like they own the place.
This one comes with the smell of rain.
Not the clean, poetic kind writers romanticise. The heavy, metallic smell that clings to concrete long after the clouds are gone. It hits me while I’m brushing my teeth, foam dripping down my chin, hand frozen mid-air like my body has just been unplugged.
My chest tightens.
I don’t remember why the smell scares me.
I just know that it does.
The mirror stares back like it’s waiting for me to explain myself. Same face. Same eyes. But something is missing in them, as furniture moved out of a room and was never replaced. I lean closer, searching for cracks, for proof that I used to be someone else.
Nothing.
That’s the worst part. There’s no visible damage. No warning label. No sign that something important slipped through my fingers and never came back.
My phone vibrates on the counter.
I don’t need to look to know who it is.
UNKNOWN NUMBER:
You didn’t sleep again.
My heart drops so fast it feels physical, like gravity suddenly doubled.
I type back with shaking fingers.
ME:
Stop texting me.
Three dots appear immediately. Too immediately.
UNKNOWN NUMBER:
You always say that.
The word always makes my stomach twist.
“I don’t know you,” I whisper out loud, like saying it might make it true.
But my body doesn’t agree.
My body reacts the way it does when you hear a song you forgot you loved, instant recognition, zero explanation. My pulse is loud in my ears. My shoulders are tight. There’s an ache low in my throat, like grief trying to clear customs.
I deleted the message.
Then block the number.
Relief lasts exactly seven seconds.
By the time I leave my apartment, the sky is already threatening rain. The kind that looks like it’s been holding a grudge all day. The street is loud, cars, voices, life happening at a speed I can’t keep up with.
I walk anyway.
Walking is the only thing that makes me feel real lately. Movement proves I still exist. Still occupies space. Still leave footprints, even if I don’t remember where I learned to walk in the first place.
Halfway down the block, my foot hits a crack in the pavement.
And suddenly,
I’m somewhere else.
Not fully. Not cleanly. It’s more like my mind glitches, like a skipped frame in a damaged film reel.
A hallway.
Dim lighting.
The sound of someone breathing, too close.
My vision blurs and I stumble, catching myself on a streetlight like it personally owes me money.
“Get it together,” I mutter.
But my hands are trembling.
I don’t know where the hallway came from. I don’t know whose breathing that was. I don’t know why my ribs feel bruised from the inside.
All I know is that my body remembers something my mind refuses to hold.
That’s how it always is.
Doctors call it dissociation. Trauma response. Protective amnesia.
Cute words for something that feels like being locked out of your own house while everyone else insists you used to live there.
The café on the corner smells like burnt coffee and safety. I step inside, letting the bell announce me like I’m normal. Like I belong. The barista smiles and asks for my order, and I give it automatically, muscle memory doing the heavy lifting.
When I sit down, my phone buzzes again.
Blocked number.
New message.
Different number.
UNKNOWN NUMBER:
Blocking me doesn’t change what happened.
My vision tunnels.
I don’t cry. I don’t scream. I just sit there, fingers digging into the paper cup until the heat hurts enough to anchor me.
ME:
What do you want from me?
The reply takes longer this time. Long enough for dread to stretch out and get comfortable.
UNKNOWN NUMBER:
For you to remember.
The word detonates quietly.
Remember what?
The question rises instinctively, desperate, hungry, but something in me slams the brakes. Because I know, deep down, that remembering won’t be gentle. It won’t be cinematic. It won’t come with closure wrapped in a bow.
It will hurt.
I put my phone face down.
Across the café, a couple laughs. The sound is sharp, almost offensive. Their knees touch under the table. Easy intimacy. The kind that assumes tomorrow exists.
My chest aches.
There’s a shape missing in my life. A person-shaped absence. I feel it most when I see hands brushing, shoulders leaning, heads resting like trust is effortless.
I don’t remember loving anyone.
But I know I have.
Because heartbreak leaves residue. And mine is everywhere.
Later, back in my apartment, the rain finally breaks. It pounds against the windows like it’s trying to get inside. I sit on the floor with my back against the couch, knees pulled to my chest, listening to the storm rewrite the silence.
That’s when the flashback hits for real.
No warning. No fade-in.
I’m on the floor again, but not this floor.
Cold tiles.
A sharp smell, antiseptic or blood, I can’t tell.
Someone is saying my name.
Over and over.
Not yelling.
Begging.
My throat closes.
“I’m here,” the voice says. “I’m right here. Please. Stay.”
My nails dig into my palms as the memory fractures, skipping like a scratched CD.
A door slamming.
A sob that sounds like it’s being torn out of someone.
Hands gripping mine, too tight, terrified.
Then,
Nothing.
I gasp, air rushing back into my lungs like I forgot how breathing works. My face is wet. I don’t remember starting to cry.
I stare at my hands.
They are shaking.
Someone loved me enough to sound like that.
Someone lost me in a way that still echoes.
And I chose to forget.
Or maybe forgetting chose me.
My phone lights up one last time.
Same unknown number.
UNKNOWN NUMBER:
I was there when you broke.
The rain outside gets louder.
So does my heartbeat.
And for the first time since waking up in this half-life of mine, I understand something with terrifying clarity:
Whatever happened to me didn’t just take my memories.
It took someone with it.
- Writer
