Not a memory.
More like a flashbang wrapped in déjà vu.

Suddenly I’m at a house party I’ve never been to, wearing gold chains I’ve never owned, laughing in a voice that ain’t mine.
There’s music. Real music. Speakers bleeding bass like prophecy.
There’s a girl in pink Nikes spinning slow in the kitchen light.
She looks at me like I already left.
And I feel it.
Like I broke her heart last week.
Like we said everything with our eyes and nothing with our mouths.

Then it’s gone.

Back to cereal.
But the beat stays in my bones.
And I can still taste the cheap tequila like it’s coded in my DNA.

I’ve never been to that house.
Never met that girl.
But I remember her hand brushing mine as I left through the side door, hoodie up, future heavy.

This memory don’t belong to me.
But I lived it anyway.

Maybe we’re just antennas.
Catching echoes.
Wearing ghost skin for a minute.
Dancing in borrowed timelines until they fade.

Still don’t know who she was.
But every time I hear that beat…
I hope she made it out.