A candle stands still on my table. Above it on the wall, a postcard is pasted. Beside the candle, there is a heart-shaped clay bowl that I had made in a workshop, and it has paper stars. My table has two drawers, and in one of them, there is a pale-yellow diary. If you try to flip through all the pages and stop where you feel obstructed the most, you will find a handmade gift made by one of my closest friends. If you turn over a few pages forward, you will find a portrait of me, the artist of which I do not talk to anymore.

Besides the diary, there are random scraps of paper among which you will find a polaroid of me with a girl who, even after we had stopped being friends, could tell just by looking at my eyes when I was not okay. Now, put everything back where it was, close the diary, and push back the drawer. Open the other one.

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Here you will see a pouch containing my jewellery. If you reach into the bottom of it, you will find a braided bracelet that a friend had given to me more than thirteen years back with beads that spell my nickname. In the same pouch is a small plastic box with a locket matching the ones that three other girls, who I am no longer friends with, and I had bought together. Close this drawer too. Move to the top of the table again.

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Adjacent to the candle is a box made up of knitted straw that I had bought with my father when we had visited the fair back at home. In it, among other things, is a chocolate wrapper of Lindt Lindor, which is my favourite chocolate. The first time I had had it was when I was a child back at home, when my neighbour’s family had brought it for me all the way from the United States. The second time (of which the wrapper is) was when I had bought it for myself in Delhi.

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The candle was a birthday gift from a girl who looks away from me now if we cross paths accidentally, and the paper stars were made by someone with whom I used to have lunch together. With some of these people, I literally share my life; in minute, detailed updates sent throughout the day. Of the others, some I see often before one of us glances at the ground way more quickly than one should. And some I wish we could meet again, years apart, kilometres apart.

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I think a major part of accepting life for what it is is accepting the losses that come your way. I do not believe that letting go of someone is doing away with every fragment of their life you shared. For you will find that in many of those fragments, your life mingles too. And when you discard all of them, you will be left with a version of yourself that you won’t be able to call you.

Keep the parts that made you happy. Honour the memories that make you you today.

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...that makes me me today. I still love them. Maybe in parts, in figments, in objects. Maybe on just my table, and in its drawers.

(The postcard remains a secret. To you and to everyone who tends to notice it first among the many other things when they enter my room.)