You once found my stash of broken things — kept in a wooden box that was once owned by my mother. It was once a home for her letters and photographs. I almost forgot about that box until one day you stumbled upon it and asked, “Why do you keep broken things?”

“I don’t know.” The last time I saw that box was when I stashed this gold pendant necklace with a broken chain. It was given by Leona, remember her? She was that moody girl with long black hair down her waist. She was the weather personified, unpredictable. Like Aeolus who seemed to have gone mad trying to keep his winds in its reins. She used to be a lot of things until she became someone’s girl. I remember missing her. I remember being jealous of her. How fortunate it would be to find someone you can love earlier than most? I remember her radiating as if finally she had found a way to stick on a season and it was summer. I remember her excitement, her curiosity, her boldness, especially her love. It was phenomenal, until it wasn’t. He was bound to leave, taking everything with him. I don’t know what happened to her. I don’t know if her moods came back stronger, hunting everyone within a two-mile radius. I saw her cracks slowly being hammered by regret, fear, and hatred. I saw it, and I didn’t know what to do.

Apart from the necklace, you found this broken wallet from Rebecca. It was earlier in June last year when I saw her weeping within the hidden corners of the library — keeping her sounds of despair muffled under her handkerchief. She looked at me mournfully and said, “I saw them,” and I knew. “What the fuck?! What did you do?” “I don’t know, just ran away.” “Did he see you?” “Probably… not.” “Break up with him!” “Wait! There must be an acceptable explanation or something. Maybe I judged too early… I don’t know, I should talk to him; we could fix it.” “That’s bull. BREAK UP WITH HIM!” “You don’t understand.” “Fine, what is this? The nth fucking time?” “It’s just that, I can’t just give up on this. I just can’t give up on us.” I must’ve walked out on her, I don’t know, I can’t remember. All I know is that the following day he was waiting for her outside our school; they were going to watch a movie or something. And as for me, I watched my friend tearing off her skin like pieces of parchment. I watched her claw out her eyes against truths she had seen. I watched her breaking herself over and over and over again just so she could fix him. It was a never-ending episode of self-destruction, like tearing apart your own skin just so you can patch his — gore and horrible. After a month, I refused to see her. I refused to see her with torn skin and blank haunting eye sockets, knowing that all she ever wanted was to be called beautiful. It was a price too high to pay.

Inside the folds of the wallet there slipped a torn hair tie. I remember trying to fix it. I remember forcing it into a knot. I remember Rhian. I borrowed this hair tie from her until eventually it snapped from numerous usage and became a rather useless piece of cord — just like Rhian, sweet sweet sweet Rhian. She is the mystery I’m still trying to figure out. She has an abundant supply of forgiveness and chances. Apparently her sense of self-love is scarce. Despite this, she never ceases to love him. I don’t understand any of it, for in my eyes all I see is some dickwad sucking her self-preservation. Believe me, I’ve seen the douche in action; we all did. He was an embodiment of extreme testosterone overload. How would it make sense when everyday up to now, I see her giving everything and taking nothing in return? It might be nobility or might be something else entirely. I’m not sure why she stayed — maybe hope made her do it. Sometimes you cannot trust hope; you’ll never know which side he is on…

There are still a lot of things kept hidden by that box; I’m not sure if you want to know. I’m not sure if I want to tell you. You see, it wasn’t the broken things that I kept. It was the beautiful people it holds within its cracks. “That’s nothing, just leave it there.”


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