I don’t know what it was about last night. Maybe it was the back pain, the kind that doesn’t scream but just sits there, stubborn, reminding you that your body has been carrying more than it should. Or maybe it was something quieter, something I hadn’t named yet, something sitting at the back of my mind waiting for a moment like that, when everything is still, when there are no distractions left, when even sleep refuses to take you.
I just found myself staring.
At my curtain, of all things.
And the strange thing is, I’ve looked at that curtain a thousand times before. It’s not new. It’s not special. But last night, it felt like it had something to say. Or maybe I was the one finally ready to listen.
Ten years.
That’s how long I’ve had it.
Ten years.
I actually sat up a little when that realization hit me, like, no, that can’t be right. But it is. Same curtain, same soft fading pattern, same slight tear at the edge that I keep telling myself I’ll fix or replace, but never really do.
And suddenly it wasn’t just a curtain anymore. It became proof of time. Of how long I’ve been here. Of how many versions of me have existed under it.
And that’s when everything else started coming back.
Not in a rush. Not like a flood. More like a slow, steady drift.
The blender.
I don’t even know why that came next, but it did. That small, slightly noisy blender I bought with my HELB money. My first “real” purchase. I remember standing there, holding it, feeling like I had done something significant.
It wasn’t even expensive.
But it felt like ownership. Like independence. Like I had stepped into something new.
I remember being so careful with that money. Planning every purchase like it mattered, like each item was a building block for the life I was just starting to figure out. And maybe it was.
That blender wasn’t just a blender. It was proof that I could choose. That I could have things that were mine.
It’s funny, because now, I don’t even think twice about buying certain things. But back then? Every single item had weight. Had intention. Had a story.
And just like that, I was back there.
Campus.
Not in a dramatic way. Just… there.
The kind of memory that doesn’t feel like you’re watching it, but like you’ve quietly stepped back into it.
I thought about my roommate.
We were so different. It almost didn’t make sense that we shared a space. Opposite sides of a coin, really. The kind of people who don’t naturally meet in the middle, but somehow coexist anyway.
We weren’t close.
Not in the way people expect roommates to be. No deep late-night conversations, no shared secrets, no inside jokes that lasted beyond the room. We just… existed in the same space.
And yet, she’s part of my story.
Isn’t that strange?
How people don’t have to stay in your life to have been important in it.
I don’t even know where she is now. We never kept in touch. There was no dramatic fallout, no reason to separate, we just… drifted. Quietly. Naturally.
Like most things do.
And then, somehow, my mind went even further.
Old flings.
Now that part made me laugh, I won’t even lie.
Because what do you mean I can still remember their faces that clearly? After all this time? Seven years, maybe more, and yet there they were, showing up in my mind like they had just stepped out of the room five minutes ago.
And the thing is, there was no heaviness attached to it. No regret. No longing. Just… curiosity.
I found myself wondering what they’re up to now. Who they became. Whether they changed, or if they’re still the same people I knew back then.
It wasn’t even about wanting to reconnect. It was more like flipping through an old photo album you forgot you had. You’re not trying to go back. You’re just… acknowledging that those moments existed.
And they were good.
Not perfect. Not life-changing. Just good.
Simple.
There’s something about that version of life that feels almost untouched. Like everything was still soft around the edges. Like nothing had hardened yet.
Back then, my biggest worries were so… manageable.
Getting to class on time.
Finishing assignments.
Making sure I didn’t miss studio.
I used to live quite a distance from school. A good 20 to 30 minutes, depending on how fast I walked and whether I was late (which, let’s be honest, I often was).
And I remember those walks so clearly.
Not because anything extraordinary happened, but because of how normal they were.
The same routes. The same turns. The same small distractions along the way. Sometimes I’d be lost in my thoughts. Other times I’d be fully present, noticing random things, the way the light hit a building, the conversations of people passing by, the quiet rhythm of everything moving around me.
I didn’t realize it then, but those moments were full.
Not in a loud, overwhelming way. Just… full.
There was a structure to life. A simplicity that came from knowing what the day expected of you.
Show up.
Do your work.
Go back home.
Repeat.
And somehow, that was enough.
I didn’t have to think about bills in a heavy way. Or long-term plans. Or whether I was doing “enough” with my life. There was a kind of built-in safety to it.
Everything was, in some way, catered for.
And I moved through it with a kind of ease that I didn’t even recognize at the time.
I was naive.
But not in a bad way.
More like… open.
Like I hadn’t yet learned to overthink everything. I believed things would work out because… why wouldn’t they?
I was a lover girl too, let’s be honest.
Always imagining possibilities. Always seeing potential in people, in situations, in life itself. I carried this quiet excitement about the future, like something good was always just around the corner.
And maybe that’s what I miss sometimes.
Not the specific people.
Not even the exact moments.
Just that feeling.
That softness.
That lightness.
That version of me who didn’t feel the need to have everything figured out.
Because she didn’t.
And she was okay with that.
I stayed there for a while last night, just letting the memories come and go. Not forcing anything, not trying to analyze it. Just… observing.
It felt almost peaceful.
Like sitting with an old friend you don’t have to impress.
And the more I thought about it, the more I realized how layered those years actually were. At the time, everything felt straightforward. But looking back now, I can see all the small things that were quietly shaping me.
The independence.
The uncertainty.
The small wins.
The random connections.
Even the moments that felt insignificant then, they weren’t.
They were building something.
I don’t think I gave myself enough credit for that version of me.
She was figuring things out in real time, without a blueprint, without guarantees. And she kept going anyway.
There’s something really honest about that.
Really human.
And maybe that’s why last night felt the way it did.
It wasn’t about wanting to go back.
It was about remembering that I’ve been many versions of myself. That life has moved, quietly but steadily, and I’ve moved with it.
That curtain has seen it all.
The blender.
The roommate.
The walks to class.
The laughter over nothing.
The quiet curiosity about people who are now just memories.
It’s all still there, in some way.
Not physically. Not in a way I can touch.
But in the way I can still close my eyes and see it.
And I don’t know… there’s something comforting about that.
To know that even as things change, as people come and go, as life becomes more complex in some ways, those pieces don’t disappear.
They stay.
Softly.
In the background.
Waiting for nights like this.
Nights where sleep doesn’t come easily.
Nights where your body slows down just enough for your mind to wander.
Nights where you find yourself staring at a curtain and somehow end up revisiting entire chapters of your life.
I didn’t find any big meaning in it.
No life lesson.
No dramatic realization.
Just… a moment.
A quiet, unexpected moment of remembering.
And honestly?
That felt like enough.
