There's a photo of me holding a glass

There's a photo of me holding a glass.

I'm halfway through the decision

of whether to drink or put it down.

My face doesn't know yet.

That was three weeks ago.

Or four. Time works differently

when you're not watching yourself.

I drank more after that.

I know because I woke up with that specific

exhaustion that isn't about sleep.

It's about the body remembering

what the mind won't hold onto.

Someone told me last night

that I'd said something at the party.

Something I don't usually say out loud.

They laughed like it was funny.

Like I'd been brave instead of careless.

I've been trying to remember

what it was. Retracing. Asking myself

if it was the kind of thing

that makes you a different person

or just the kind of thing

that makes you a version of yourself

you don't usually let other people see.

But here's the thing:

I can't trust my own memory now.

I can look at the photo—

the glass, the half-smile, the hand

that belongs to me but feels like

it belongs to someone I'm watching—

and I don't know what happens next.

I don't know if I put it down

or kept drinking.

I don't know if what I said

was honest or just honest-seeming

when you're standing in a room full of people

who expect you to be entertaining.

I look at that glass in my hand.

That person looks like they're

about to make a choice.

But I was wrong.

The choice had already been made

before the camera caught it.

I just didn't know it yet.