The Part That Breaks
The sky blinked.
Just once.
But it was enough.
He stepped back, breath catching in his throat.
Then forward.
Then stopped again.
He didn't cry.
Not at first.
His body didn't remember how.
The weight came in pieces.
First a heaviness behind his eyes.
Then in his chest—like a pressure without source.
Then in his throat, rising like bile.
He clenched his fists.
And the thought came back:
"I knew something."
That was the pain.
Not the forgetting.
But the knowing that something had been there—something precious, terrifying, true.
And now it was gone.
And he couldn't even name it.
He dropped to his knees.
Dirt kicked up around him.
The grass didn't bend.
It didn't care.
"Why does it matter?" he asked, voice shaking.
He didn't know who he was talking to.
Maybe to the sky. Maybe to himself.
Maybe to the silence that lived in this place like mold.
"Why does it matter what I forgot if I can't get it back?"
No answer.
"I didn't ask for this," he whispered.
Then louder:
"I DIDN'T ASK FOR THIS!"
His voice cracked.
He gasped like he'd been running, though he hadn't moved.
"I didn't ask to be here—wherever here is!"
He struck the ground.
Once.Twice.Again.
He scraped his knuckles raw in the dirt.
Didn't stop.
Not until he bled.
Not until the swing stopped moving behind him.
Not until the tree cast a shadow in the wrong direction.
"I hate this," he said.
"I hate forgetting."
"I hate not knowing what I lost."
"I hate that it keeps happening."
"I hate me."
The wind moved through the grass again.
Soft. Mocking.
"I'm not real," he whispered.
He didn't say it like a question.
He said it like a confession.
And for a moment, the world agreed.
The sky flickered.The swing vanished.The tree folded slightly inward.
And then everything came back.Almost like it never changed.
He was on the ground.
Alone.
Covered in dirt and blood.
Tears finally coming.
Not in sobs.
But in silence.