If I’ve ever loved you – romantically, platonically, or even as a fleeting, unreachable crush – you’re tucked somewhere in the pages of my life. Not just the metaphorical pages, but the literal ones too. My journal, sketchbooks, scraps of paper scattered around, and maybe even in every thought that drifts to you when I pluck a pretty flower from the sidewalk.
It’s like wanting to leave traces of you, both physical and emotional, knowing that nothing in life lasts forever. But between the pages, you remain – a small, meaningful reason that kept me wanting to fall in love with life at one point in time. Somewhere in those pages, I wrote unsent letters for you, letters I’ll never share but I couldn’t bring myself to forget the feelings. I scribbled your name whenever you crossed my mind, sometimes with a tiny heart next to it, like a keepsake of affection only I could see.
On another page, there’s a rough sketch of your smile – those crinkled, round eyes framed by glasses when you giggled at my bad jokes. Flipping further, there’s a memory of a moment I’ll always treasure: the receipt from the bookstore when you offered to buy the book I hesitated to purchase. The carbon print has faded, but the memory of your kind reassurance hasn’t.
Tucked in another corner is a silly note you wrote on a napkin while we waited for food, the ink smudged but your words still clear. You probably don’t even remember writing it, but I do. That note and its messy lines are proof of a brief, unrepeatable moment we shared.
These pages – these tiny fragments of you – are a way of holding onto something intangible. They remind me that in some small way, you’ve shaped the person I am today. And though life moves on and time continues to flip the pages, you’ll always, always be there, somewhere, between them.
