You don’t remember it clearly

You don’t remember it clearly. 

Not in a way you can explain. 

If someone asked you what happened, you wouldn’t have much to offer. No full picture. No complete sequence. Just fragments. 

A place, maybe. 
A feeling more than a moment. 
Something that existed for a short time and then disappeared without asking to be remembered. 

And yet, it stayed. 

Not as a story. 

But as something quieter. 

You don’t revisit it often. It doesn’t come up in conversation. It doesn’t feel important enough to hold onto deliberately. 

But every now and then, it returns. 

Not fully. 

Just enough to remind you that it’s still there. 

It’s strange how memory works like that. 

The things you try to remember sometimes fade first. 
The things you don’t pay attention to seem to last longer. 

You hold onto details you didn’t mean to keep. 

The way the air felt. 
The silence between two words. 
A version of yourself you don’t fully recognize anymore. 

You don’t know why that stayed. 

Why that specific moment, out of everything else. 

It didn’t seem important at the time. 

Nothing about it asked to be remembered. 

But maybe that’s exactly why it did. 

Because it wasn’t trying to be anything. 

It just existed, briefly, without expectation. 

And somehow, that made it easier to keep. 

Not clearly. 

Not completely. 

But enough. 

Enough to return without warning. 
Enough to feel familiar, even now. 

Even if you can’t quite explain what it was.