It's strange how I could fit so much in a shoebox. A shoebox made for a pair. There is this specific shoebox I have tucked underneath my folding bed. A relatively new one, with its glossy lid and blunt corners. I can name its contents by heart. A letter dated September 27. Two pairs of tickets to movies. A priceless photo of you as a kid on horseback. Six receipts I managed to save from places where we've shown our true colors. Nine bus tickets. One valentine's card with a doodle I'd frame in the Louvre for everyone to appreciate. A list that says ten things but actually has twenty. My favorite one being "I love that you love me. I cannot even." Two poems. Five photographs of us, two of you, one stolen, most with teeth, some wacky. An ice cream tin. I can still taste the pistachio and see our smiles while we shared and fought over who gets the tin. A notebook holding a sacred bucketlist, boxes unticked. This box is small, but it keeps a lot more than that. It cradles a semi-epic backstory. It possesses a playlist inaudible to all, except for two people. It confines a few arguments, little squabbles, and maybe a tiny bit of resentment. More than that, it is abundant in affection, concern, last-minute cuddles, kisses given and taken. I won't deny it, I'm a sentimental person. I've been keeping and snatching little parts of you and placing them in plain sight around me. Where I can see them, see you, when I flip through my books or open my wallet for change. But now you're gone, hidden from view. Diminished inside four corners, right under where I sleep at night to forget you. It's strange how I could fit so much in a shoebox. This shoebox I made just for you and I.