The shape of what remains

Memories are wonderful things, if we don't have to deal with the past. They never truly end as long as we're alive. They haunt us, suffocate us, reminding us every second, how foolish and naive we once were to trust wolves in sheep’s clothing. They are the price we pay to finally see the world for what it is.

We like to think we're evolving, but the truth is we never change that much. We grow older, sharper, quieter, but the same trusting heart still beats, the only residual of the person we used to be. We recognize the traps now, yet we still wander toward them. Different faces, different names, but the wound stays the same. An endless cycle, a curse that doesn’t seem to break.

There was a time when we believed kindness was enough, that somehow it would find its way back to us, that loyalty would be returned, that justice would be served. Now we measure every word, every smile. We pretend to be the grown, harsh, and heartless person we're not.

Time passes, but the echoes remain. Some nights they whisper, other nights they scream. They roam in the empty rooms of memory, hidden from sight, waiting for our mind to grow still. Then suddenly they return, louder than before, dragging the past into the present as if no time had passed at all.

Maybe the past doesn’t stay for a reason. It settles quietly beneath our skin, not always as a wound, but as a scar, silent proof of everything we once endured, that even in our most fragile moments, we survived the storm that tried to undo us.

But if the damage remains… did we really survive at all?

Khadija Menbeh

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