Time doesn’t heal what the body remembers
you forgot what you did; my body never did
Funny how, even when I don’t want to remember, my body still aches from the memory.
I tried so hard to let go of the past, yet somehow, it still finds its way back to me on the most random days—
similar names, familiar songs, a certain perfume passing by, a certain place being mentioned, or a silence that sounds too much like the night when everything I believed in quietly fell apart.
It has been a year.
A whole year since you turned love
into something I could no longer recognize.
A year since I learned that betrayal doesn’t always arrive with a warning— sometimes, it wears the face you once loved, and speaks in the voice you once trusted.
Some wounds do not bleed, they settle beneath the skin.
The sudden tears. The trembling hands. The fear that comes without warning. The nights when my chest feels like its gonna explode for everything I cannot say. The way my heart still races
when something feels even slightly familiar to the pain you left behind.
I wonder if you ever remember.
I wonder if you both ever lie awake on an ordinary night and suddenly think of what you did to me.
I wonder if you remember the person I was before your choices taught me that love has expiration date.
Perhaps you don’t, and perhaps you never will.
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Perhaps you have already buried that chapter, while I am still here, carrying the ashes of a house I did not set on fire.
You get to walk away from the person you hurt, while the person you hurt has to keep living inside the aftermath.
You left with your hands clean, and somehow, I became the one who learned to wash blood from wounds I never caused.
My body still remember everything.
It remembers the hesitation in your voice, the strange distance in your eyes.
It remembers the moment trust stopped feeling like shelter and started feeling like a locked door I no longer had the key to.
And sometimes, I am angry at my body for still hurting over something that happened a year ago.
You may have forgotten the date, the places, the words, and the details.
But my body remembers.
But perhaps I was never mourning you.
Perhaps I was mourning the version of myself who stupidly believed you would never become the reason I learned how to doubt love.
Who loved without calculating the cost.
Who heard “I love you” and never wondered who else had heard it too.
Now, everything reminds me of the damage you caused. Even the softness of being loved
can make my body brace for the moment it will hurt again.
But one day,
I hope it remembers something else too — that I survived you. Both.
That I survived the night, the silence, the questions, the shames, the version of myself who thought she would never be whole again.
And when everything no longer reminds me of you, I hope I don’t remember you as the person who ruined me— but as the person who taught me that I could still find my way back to myself, no matter what happen.
