Yesterday was December 11.

Yesterday, I spoke with a friend. Whenever I talk to them, there’s a quiet tension inside me. Not because of their tone of voice, but because their voice is being recorded.

They constantly record sound in whatever space they’re in. Not only phone calls the room, the table, everyday life… As if every place they inhabit is also an archive.

Something happened to them in the past. After that, sound stopped being just vibration. It became evidence.

The moment I remember this, the conversation changes. My words grow heavier. My sentences file themselves down without effort. For a moment, it feels like I’m not speaking to the person in front of me, but to some unknown ear that will listen later.

On one hand, I try to understand them. Trauma disrupts the way a person relates to tim ...