People say my knack for remembering details is a gift.

In certain situations, yes.

And admittedly, it can be rather entertaining:-

Remembering where that scatterbrain of a colleague parked his car; how many times customers have spelled your name incorrectly; what the friendly barista’s name is; or that the boss recently started wearing new dress shoes – dark green, with laces and wing tips – a rather adventurous sartorial choice, given his seemingly conservative style (or lack thereof).

It’s all innocuous, random information – for sheer amusement, or confirmation of neutral facts, if you will.

 

And then you fall in love.

Where every single thing about him is documented in vivid detail, in that super powered memory of yours.

The tone and timbre of his voice, the first words he said to you (“see, just a smile from you and you’re already looking so pretty”), the way your fingers nestle comfortably between his, his triumphant fist pump after you kissed him goodnight for the first time, the almost indiscernible mole above his upper lip, how he always smells like freshly sun-dried laundry…

It all gets archived and filed away in a special place

Always ready for instant recall, instant joy.

 

But then he leaves

As quickly as he arrived

A unilateral severance, without having consulted you beforehand.

And as you grapple with the effects of his decision, with a million thoughts running through your mind – could I have prevented this? did I not show you enough concern? would things have gone a different way if not for my background? why did you make these promises and plans if you couldn’t see them through? did you love me? did i mean anything to you at all? – your memory bank of him goes into overdrive, with flashbacks replaying continuously like a faulty VHS tape

Except that the images are crystal clear, right down to the last detail.

Nothing fuzzy at all.

And yet, nothing but fuzzy feels.

Over and over and over and…

 

It is in times of heartbreak where I wish didn’t remember things in such great detail. This immense sentimentalism makes the recovery process a lot harder (and longer) than anticipated.

Three weeks with someone may appear to be too short a duration for anything substantial to have materialised, and at times, I find myself consciously justifying the depth of my feelings against a comparatively transient block of time.

While this might have been inconsequential to some, it meant the world to me.

I hope it was to you, too.

 

They’re not inconsequential if you remember them.”

 

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