There's a place I like to believe exists, the directory of lost things. Not the kind of lost things people search for with flashlights or frantic hands, but the quiet things. The things we lose without even realizing the true version of yourself who used to write without doubting every word, or the friend you swore you'd never lose touch with, but somehow haven't spoken to in years.
Nobody ever talks about how easy it is to lose things without a sound. One day you're laughing with someone like you'll know them forever, and the next, you're walking past each other like strangers — both pretending not to notice the weight of what used to be.
The directory holds everything. Half-written poems tucked between yellowed pages. Unfinished conversations that echo only in your head. The first song you ever loved but haven't listened to in ages. Even the feeling of home from a place you had to leave behind.
If you could step into the directory, you'd see shelves stacked with old versions of yourself — the fearless one, the hopeful one, the one who believed in magic before life taught you not to. They wait there quietly, gathering dust, hoping you'll come back one day.
What's strange is how often we miss the things we've lost without even knowing. You don't realize you're carrying around the absence of something until a random scent or melody brings it rushing back — sharp, sudden, and painfully familiar.
I wonder if the directory ever feels full. If there’s someone who keeps track of everything we've let go of — all the people, dreams, and pieces of ourselves we've quietly abandoned along the way.
Maybe nothing is ever really lost. Maybe everything we're missing is still out there, waiting for us to find our way back. Or maybe... some things are meant to stay tucked away, existing only as whispers in the background of who we've become.
I decided to do a word count to check my ability of writing,
