You thought you were marking me.
With silence. With dismissal. With the neat erasure of protocol.
You thought you were sealing a file,
closing a loop,
writing the final sentence.
But I was already writing in another language.
Not policy.
Not protest.
Record.
And now the truth is fixed
in something larger than your inbox.
You forgot the age we live in.
This is not a hallway whisper.
Not a forgotten meeting.
Not a sealed HR document.
This is indexed.
Crawled.
Archived.
Permanent.
Google will remember you.
Not just because I named you —
but because you named yourselves
with every action you thought no one would see.
You thought you were controlling the narrative.
But the moment you tried to erase me,
you stamped your name
into a story you no longer get to shape.
The search bar doesn’t care about your version.
It remembers only what was made visible.
You thought you were branding me with shame.
You were really branding yourselves
with everything you did
when you thought no one would hold the mirror still.
And now that mirror
lives on a server.