The Things I Somehow Remember

Memory is a strange thing.

It forgets entire conversations, important dates, names, and details you were absolutely certain you'd remember forever.
And then, for reasons I will probably never understand, it keeps the most random things.
I remember the coffee at the hotel. More specifically, I remember the smell of soy milk because they didn't have oat milk.
Why has my brain decided that particular piece of information deserves permanent storage? No idea. But apparently, it does.
I remember the rain that arrived unexpectedly.
I remember losing my room key and realizing it only after I had walked about ten streets away. I had to retrace my steps, staring at the pavement until, somehow, I found it. I never told him that.
There are only so many demonstrations of my clumsiness one person needs to witness.
Although, considering what happened with the corkscrew, I probably wasn't hiding it particularly well. I remember the first one I broke.
And I remember everyone's faces even better. That tiny moment of silence. The surprised eyes. Me holding the evidence of yet another completely inexplicable accident. I still maintain that some objects simply aren't made to survive me.
I remember chocolates.
I remember a salmon-colored T-shirt that caught my attention for reasons I couldn't explain then and certainly can't explain now.
I remember trying to watch horror movies and failing almost immediately. Apparently hiding your face through most of a film does not count as watching it.
I remember songs whispered between kisses on a cold night. And the little smiles afterwards. The kind that don't need explaining because both people know exactly what they're smiling about.
And I remember a first kiss. That one is different.
Time has softened many memories. Some have become incomplete. Others have disappeared almost entirely.
But somehow, that kiss refused to become blurry. I can still remember the moment. And maybe some memories are simply like that. They don't need to be recreated or replaced. They belong exactly where they happened.
But when I think about all those little fragments, I've realized that the memory I treasure most isn't the kiss. It isn't the songs. It isn't even one of the moments that would look particularly romantic from the outside.
It's the moment I realized I felt safe. And by safe, I don't mean safe from him. I mean safe from everything else.
That's an entirely different feeling.
Nothing extraordinary had happened.
There was no dramatic gesture. No promise that everything would always be okay. No carefully chosen words designed to reassure me.
He was simply there. And somehow, that was enough.
I remember this strange feeling that the rest of the world could do whatever it wanted. Something could go wrong. Plans could change.
Life could become complicated, unpredictable, messy. And still, somewhere inside me, there was this quiet certainty: I'll be okay. He's here.
I don't think I understood the importance of that feeling while I was experiencing it. I do now.
Because there are people who can make us laugh.
People who make our hearts beat faster.
People we find fascinating, attractive, exciting.
And then, very occasionally, there is someone whose presence does something quieter. Your shoulders drop. The noise in your head becomes quieter. You stop feeling as though you have to be prepared for the world. Not because that person can protect you from everything.
Of course they can't. The world hasn't changed at all. It simply feels safer because they're in it with you. For me, that feeling isn't small.
And it isn't something I experience easily. Maybe that's why, of everything my memory could have chosen to keep, I'm grateful it kept that.
I wonder whether he ever knew. Probably not.
I'm not sure I had the words for it then. But I hope that, somehow, people get to know when they've made someone feel that way.
Because I think there are many beautiful ways to be remembered.
For making someone laugh.
For an unforgettable kiss.
For conversations that lasted too long.
For songs, adventures, ridiculous moments and stories that still make someone smile years later.
But being remembered as the person whose mere presence made someone feel that the world couldn't quite get to them?
I think I'd be proud of that.
And perhaps that's what surprises me most about memory.
I've forgotten words. I've forgotten conversations.
There are gestures I can no longer picture and details I once thought would remain perfectly intact.
But somehow I still have the smell of soy milk.
The unexpected rain.
The lost key he never knew about.
The broken corkscrew.
The chocolates.
That salmon-colored T-shirt.
My spectacular failure at horror movies.
Songs whispered on a cold night.
A first kiss.
A few knowing smiles.
And that feeling. Especially that feeling.
Maybe remembering someone isn't about preserving an entire person perfectly. Maybe memory simply chooses a handful of moments and says: These. Keep these.
And apparently, mine chose some rather peculiar ones. I'm glad it did.
Because years later, I may not remember everything. But I remember laughing. I remember kissing. I remember being wonderfully, embarrassingly clumsy. And once, in someone's presence, I remember feeling completely safe from the world.
What a beautiful thing to leave behind in someone's memory.
Thank you!🤍

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