We sat in slow motion at a table no one had set. What we said stretched across seconds until it lost all meaning. Sometimes I thought you might laugh. But the light bent, and your expression remained frozen. We spoke in delay. We heard each other too late. Maybe that was our flaw. Not the lack of words, but their echo, which never rested. I often wonder if what we call memory is merely a recording, overexposed, rewound too often, passed on too many times.