The Mind That Keeps Case Files

My mind has an office somewhere, in a room where daylight never enters.

There are tall cabinets, labeled drawers, and files tied with string. Some are so old that the paper has yellowed. Others grow thicker from one day to the next.

My mind forgets almost nothing.

It keeps a message someone took too long to answer. A forgotten promise. A look I didn't know how to interpret. A door closed a little harder than usual.

It doesn't keep them at random.

It classifies them.

For every important person in my life, there is a file.

Their name is written on the cover. Beneath it, in small letters, is a note I have never said out loud:

"To be reviewed."

At first, the files are thin.

A few pages, an incident, a doubt.

Then one day, that person forgets to ask how I've been.

My mind opens the drawer.

Takes out the file.

Adds a page.

They don't always think about you.

A few days later, they talk to me, but they seem distracted.

Another page.

They don't have the same patience anymore.

One evening, I tell them something hurt me, and they don't understand why.

Another page.

They minimize your feelings.

None of these observations is necessarily false. Maybe the person really was inattentive. Maybe they were in a hurry. Maybe they simply didn't understand.

But the mind doesn't stop at facts. It looks for connections. And once it finds enough of them, it reaches a conclusion.

"See? This is what they always do."

From that moment on, it doesn't take much.

If the person is silent, the file opens.

If they are late, another page is added.

If they do something kind, my mind looks at it suspiciously and places it in a separate pocket labeled "Exceptions."

But if they make a mistake, even a small one, the incident goes straight into the main record.

The file grows.

The person, meanwhile, fits inside it less and less.

One day, something strange happens.

I meet that person and, before they even say anything, I feel as though I already know what is coming. I recognize their tone before they finish the sentence. I guess their intention before they explain the gesture. I hear things in their words that they never actually said.

I am no longer listening.

I am checking.

Everything they do passes through the filter of the file. If they are kind, I wonder what they want. If they pull away, I tell myself I was right. If they try to come closer, I look for the reason they are only doing it now.

The file always has an answer.

And because it has an answer for everything, I begin to believe that I possess the truth.

I don't notice that I have started judging the person they are today for the actions of the person they were yesterday. That sometimes I make them pay for mistakes someone else made. That before I even give them the chance to surprise me, I have already placed them in the category where my mind decided they belong.

One evening, I open the cabinet in my mind and find a file so thick I can barely pull it out.

On the cover is the name of someone I love.

I place it on the desk and begin turning the pages.

The first is an old disappointment.

The second, a fear I never spoke aloud.

The third, a conversation in which each of us understood something different.

Further on, I find assumptions, imagined scenarios, answers I wrote on their behalf, and replies I prepared for conversations that never took place.

Between two documents, I discover a note in my own handwriting:

If it happens again, don't let yourself be fooled.

I read it several times.

Then I look for the date.

It was written during a time when I had been hurt.

I remember how much it hurt then. I remember promising myself that I would be more careful, that I would stop overlooking the signs, that I would never again arrive unprepared at the edge of disappointment.

My mind had done everything it knew how to do to protect me.

It had gathered evidence.

Identified patterns.

Prepared conclusions.

The problem was that it had never updated the file.

It had preserved the wound but forgotten that years had passed. That people change. That I had changed too. That resemblance is not always repetition, and that an old fear can recognize danger even where danger no longer exists.

I sat there with the file open.

For the first time, I noticed how many pages were missing.

I didn't know what that person had been thinking. I didn't know why they had been silent. I didn't know what had happened during the days when I wasn't there.

I had only my side of the story and countless explanations I had written in their name.

I picked up a pencil and drew a line beneath the last document.

Then I wrote:

"Not all the circumstances are known."

I looked at the sentence.

It seemed too small for such a thick file.

And yet it was the first thing I had written there without pretending to be certain.

I placed the page on top of all the others.

I didn't tear up the file.

I didn't burn the documents.

I didn't erase what had happened.

I simply closed the cover.

On the desk, there was another file, thin and still unwritten.

I picked up a label and began writing another person's name.

I stopped before the final letter.

I left the label blank.

Outside, someone knocked at the door.

My mind immediately rose from the desk and reached for the appropriate drawer.

I stayed in my chair.

The knocking came again.

This time, I didn't open a single file.

I went to the door and opened it.

The person standing there had something to tell me.

I didn't know what yet.

For a few moments, I let that be enough.

If you are a writer, we'd love to have you!!! Join us and share your stories.

No Time — Publication Share through stories