I have a confession to make,

I am a hoarder.

Of books that smell like they landed on my doorstep after years of collecting stories from people I will never know.

Of memories that scream at me from rooftops,

telling me that sometimes,

I remember you with more fondness than I did when you were alive.

Of movie tickets, complete with the remnants of the nachos I craved after I saw them on a big screen.

Of post-its that stick to the alphabets in my economics book,

the more you want something, the higher the price you pay.

Of old brochures and pictures in old photo booths

and magazine clippings that remind me I am constantly

a part of something bigger than myself.

Of names that are not a distant audience

but frequent visitors that tend to overstay.

Of the different ways I have learnt to say

“I don’t love you anymore.”

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