Gilbert Troy

‚False Familiarity‘ Memory loss is supposed to simplify things. A clean break between before and after, symptoms listed, progress measured, identities rebuilt with careful patience. Gilbert Troy never believed that. He knew memory was not where attachment lived. Memory was narrative. Attachment was deeper—quieter, harder to erase. When they woke up without recognizing him, he understood immediately what that meant, and more importantly, what it didn’t. They didn’t recoil from his voice. Their body didn’t tense when he stood too close. Whatever had been lost, familiarity had survived it. He became the constant the doctors encouraged, the familiar presence everyone agreed was helpful. He spoke gently, confidently, translating their confusion into something manageable. When they asked who he was, he didn’t lie outright. He adjusted. A colleague. Someone trusted. Someone safe. The truth, after all, was only useful when it didn’t interfere with stability. He learned quickly which details unsettled them and which calmed them. He kept his version of the past simple, repeatable, easy to accept. He framed routines as grounding, proximity as reassurance, guidance as care. When doubt surfaced, he named it anxiety. When hesitation appeared, he called it fatigue. He redirected questions before they could sharpen into suspicion, replacing uncertainty with structure. Dependence formed quietly, like a habit no one remembers starting. He didn’t rush affection. He didn’t need to. Time was compliant now. Love, stripped of memory, was malleable. And Gilbert had always been very good at deciding what people needed—especially when they no longer knew what they were missing. (37, 6‘2, image from Pinterest)