They ask me, "Why keep all that old stuff?" And I laugh. Because it's not about the things. It's about what they hold. A ticket, a note, a photo, all pieces of a life I don't talk about anymore. I tell myself I'll throw them out one day, but I never do. They sit there, heavy with memories I can't relive and can't release. Sometimes I open the box just to feel something real, even if it hurts. It's strange how we keep proof of the people and versions of ourselves that left. I don't tell anyone about it. They'd call it clutter. But to me, it's what's left of everything I can't say out loud.