Hmm?
There are all kinds of things in my room. Coffee cups left unwashed. Loose pieces of paper, waiting to scatter the moment I switch the fan on. A stack of unread books. Pens. Paints. The usual mess.
But among all this clutter, there’s one thing that always pulls my eyes to it, always sets me spiralling into anxiety, a little photo frame, holding my picture.
It was a birthday gift. Nothing unique, nothing special. Very boring. And yet, it was loved. It was cherished. Until the other day, when I tore it down.I peeled away the tapes that held the back in place, ripped it open, slid my picture out. It’s in three parts now.
I told myself I did it so the frame could be used for something else.But the truth is, the frame itself makes me teary. It makes me weary. So now it’s hidden deep inside my drawer, buried beneath books and pens.
Now it’s just a quiet ghost in my room. Maybe it will be forgotten there. But the ghost always lingers.
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