There is one thing I can never forget.
It is not even important.
In fact, it was probably the least important thing that happened during the entire session.
And that is exactly why it keeps returning.
I do not remember everything he said that day.
I do not remember the exact order of events.
Entire sections feel blurred.
But I remember perfectly the three knocks someone made on the floor above.
Three.
Separated by a few seconds.
As if they were listening.
As if the sounds were reaching them through the ceiling.
As if someone upstairs was trying to decide whether to intervene or keep pretending they could hear nothing.
It is ridiculous.
Because it has nothing to do with him.
And yet I have spent months thinking about it.
Those three knocks.
Sometimes I try to remember the session and end up remembering the building instead.
A pipe vibrating behind a wall.
The tiny metallic click of a buckle shifting position.
A chair scraping somewhere in another apartment.
The constant hum of a lamp I had never noticed until I became completely still.
And then him.
Always him afterwards.
As if memory needs to rebuild the stage before allowing me to return to his presence.
There is something humiliating about that.
Because I do not like thinking about him.
I do not like realizing how much space he occupies inside my head.
And yet I keep remembering details nobody should remember.
The way he paused before speaking.
Not dramatically.
Not to create tension.
Something worse than that.
He seemed genuinely occupied with a thought.
As though he were adjusting something inside himself before adjusting anything else.
I remember one time when almost an entire minute passed without him doing anything.
I expected instructions.
I expected movement.
I expected something.
Instead he simply watched.
Not me.
That would have been easier.
He was looking slightly to my left.
As though he had detected some invisible flaw in the air itself.
I still think about that.
Not because it mattered.
Because it probably did not.
But my mind keeps returning there.
To that minute.
To that pause.
To that useless detail.
And the harder I try to recover the important memories, the more these fragments appear.
The knocks from the apartment above.
The lamp.
The pipe.
The buckle.
The pause.
The way he rested one hand against a surface without actually doing anything.
And somehow all of that feels harder to forget than anything else.
Because obsession never lives inside the big moments.
It lives in the leftovers.
In the fragments.
In the details nobody would bother archiving.
And perhaps that is why it keeps growing.
Because I am no longer remembering a session.
The neck I am not moving it the neck has locked I should…
