i turn sixteen next monday. everyone says it’s supposed to be fun, turning sixteen. but everything feels stale. every poster on my wall, every fairy light idea, everything i want to buy drags. *just two more years*, i tell myself, *i don’t need it.*

the disillusionment of my father’s failed ambitions came earlier than it should have. life became a rental agreement — not a novel, just a book of accounts. never had a childhood room worth missing, never kept toys that could guilt me later. nothing to frown over when leaving for college.

i learned the softest way to let go before learning what my knuckle-white grip could hold together. now it’s just me and a box of papers under my bed — a ghost of memories i don’t want to be exorcised off of.

you start packing instead of building, learning which memories fold best. neat little boxes, light enough to leave at a moment’s notice.

and when you don’t have a home, you start building them inside people. that’s a joke too. they evict you without warning. suddenly, when the bulldozer comes, you’re still sitting with the rubble — because the ruins of an altar are still sacred.

and sometimes, on bad days, you stare through the lit windows of other people’s houses. not out of envy, just curiosity. wondering what it’s like to be someone who decorates their room like they’re staying for the next dinner.

so i leave signs everywhere — a lipstick stain on the mug, a playlist, paper flowers i folded with my hands, a canvas i painted that blistered my palms, and the hair tie that smelt like my shampoo. just a pathetic cry to be remembered.

i existed, i existed, i existed.