𝗟𝗜𝗧𝗘𝗥𝗔𝗥𝗬: “Souvenir” By Sandrea Ruth H. Cruz

 Layout by: Gabryael Quijano

Published by: Christine Mae Karunungan 

Date Published: February 25, 2025

Time Published: 9:52 AM  

Category: Prose

Subject: Finding something sentimental.

I came home today to find my room messy, having debris scattered all over like an aftermath of a storm. The mess felt like it was inside of my head—thoughts were scattered, feelings unsettled, memories crumbling like fragile books. Clothes, pillows, blankets, books—all thrown across the room. The room itself seems like it was waiting for me to clean it. The air was thick with the musty odor, making each breath heavy. Like I was inhaling a huge amount of dust that settled over everything.

I couldn’t deal with it anymore, the urge to clean and to restore order. The sight of the mess deepened my despair. From bed to closet to shelves; it felt overwhelming to see my room in this state. I sighed while scanning the mess, taking the scattered clothes, blanket and books. Each book felt heavier than the last, as if time itself pressed down on me. I could feel the dust being so thick and dense that I could almost engrave my name onto it—as if each layer was evidence of how long it had been since I deep cleaned my room.

While I placed each book at their place, something caught my eye—a small yet familiar book that contains all of our belongings. Without thinking, my hand reached for it. I stared at it blankly and my heart sank: feeling heavy like a stone sinking deeper with each passing moment. I realized that it was the album where I used to place what you give me. From tickets, to photobooth strips, to plastic wrappers that came with the packaging. Small item it is, but is the heaviest thing in the room.

My breath was caught. And for a moment, I couldn’t move. How ironic that these hold the memory of the person that I once shared with, someone who is no longer with me. I thought it might be a great idea to recall the good times that both of us shared, but as I flipped through each page; it felt raw and unhealed, as the weight of all the lost moments there had been stuck there, too heavy to carry.

My fingers trembling as I paused at a photo of us as I touched the picture of us laughing—me, covered with icing all over my face while you looked at me like I was the most breathtaking thing in the world. The heaviness in my hands was a harsh reminder of the loss I couldn’t endure further.

As I sat on the floor, still holding the album, the heaviness of its substance crushed me with a closure that I wasn’t prepared for. My eyes overflowed with a single tear slipping down my cheek. The tear felt the strain of a thousand unspoken words—apologies, confessions, regret. It fell silently, as if the room itself was mourning with me.

I closed the album, unable to bear the weight any longer. And for the meantime, the room seemed to breathe with me, its heavy air imitating the heaviness in my chest. I stood up, placed the album onto its place, the sorrow is still there yet somehow lighter. Maybe, just maybe, it wasn’t about fixing the mess; like me, imperfect—a mix of memories, mistakes, and losses—but still standing, unbroken.