This Is How I Remember It

This is how I remember it—
not in full scenes,
but in flickers—
like sun slicing through broken blinds
at 4:17 p.m.

You were humming a tune
I never learned the name of,
your fingers trailing steam
from a chipped porcelain cup.
The scent—jasmine and burnt toast—
was the kind of silence
that speaks in color.

I remember the clock stuttered,
or maybe it was my breath.
You said something about rain
but the sky was dry,
and I wanted to believe
you were staying this time.

The floor creaked like an old voice.
Your shadow moved first—
always the first to leave.
You smiled like a secret,
and shut the door softly
as if not to wake the goodbye.

Later, I stood still
in the space where you had been.
The dust in the light
looked like falling stars
with nowhere left to land.
I tried to hold one in my palm,
but even memory won't stay
when you need it most.

I searched the walls
for fingerprints,
but you'd cleaned them all away.
Only the echo of your laugh
remained in the corners—
hollow, familiar,
and fading too fast.

Some things don’t fade.
They settle—
like dust in the folds of memory,
like echoes that forget how to quiet down.

This is how I remember it—
Not as truth,
but as a heartbeat I kept
long after yours
had gone quiet.