We would go places, and she’d tell me I wasn’t there. That I imagined it.
At first, I thought she was joking. Being dramatic, messing around. But she wasn’t.
One time, we went to the beach. I remembered the cold sand under my feet, the salty air, the way the sky turned shades of gold and pink as the sun dipped below the horizon. I even had a photo of the sunset. Proof.
But when I mentioned it later, she just shook her head. “What are you talking about? You weren’t there.”
I laughed, confused. “Of course I was.”
Then she pulled out the same photo, held it up. “I took this,” she said. “I showed my friend. Why would I say you were there if you weren’t?”
I knew I was there.
I could feel the memory, solid in my mind. The wind in my hair. The sound of the waves crashing. The exact moment I lifted my phone to take the picture.
But she spoke with so much certainty. So much confidence.
Did I really make it up?
It made me doubt my own memories, like I didn’t know what was real anymore.
Like maybe I was disappearing, little by little.
