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on how we will see the world

“Do you remember this?” he asks from across the apartment. I was sealing the last of my boxes, the sound of packing tape scoring this hot afternoon. Outside, I can hear the city sounds carrying on just like any day. The movers were arriving tomorrow. A smarter man would have packed sooner but cramming wasn’t just something I do. I practically live at the eleventh hour.

I look up and see the wooden cigar box we got in Vigan. “Of course, I do.” I chuckle. “Where did you find it?”

“It was collecting dust under a stack of books in the shelf.”

“Poor thing. We forgot all about it.” He sets it down on the desk beside me. Inside were dozens of handwritten notes. On a seemingly ordinary day much like this one, when our hearts were still brand new, he told me we should write to each other.

“What would we write? We talk every day. We’ll see each other every day.” I argued.

“The good stuff. The bad stuff. Anything really. Then one day when we’re really old, let’s sit down and read them.”


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