he took his straw, unwrapped it, and plunked it in my water

I'm a week out from Spring Break. And no, it does not escape me what I was a year ago.

I've got this book that's pretty much the most emotionally unhealthy item a girl could ever own - it's a large, black sketchbook that is filled with skeletons from relationships past. There are four chapters for four boys that each left their own mark on me, took their own little piece of me.

Yes, I look at this book when I'm frustrated and bitter and cynical. Yes, sometimes it just gives more fuel to the fire and keeps my depression burning. Sometimes it just makes me sad.

But really? Most of the time, I look at this book when I'm desperate to remember. Because life goes so quickly, and I can forget the details that I once worshiped. This book is filled with the tiny moments that one thinks aren't worth remembering because they're so easily collected - and then when they're gone, you wish you had just stuffed your pockets with one or two more for the road.

The details and memories keep me company. I like knowing them, I like being able to run my fingers over the artifacts and not be cut, just warmed by their existence. They are mine, you see, only mine. No one else (especially the boys who left them behind) will ever be able to touch them. That satisfies me, selfishly I admit, but it's such a rare treat for me to have something entirely for myself.

This life moves so quickly, changes so hugely, that these details are my most treasured items. In my memory, they will never change - I replay them over and over and thank God that for some reason I am able to recreate these snapshots of time frozen. I can't even begin to tell you the insignificant, ridiculous things I have collected in the most desperate cry for things to REMAIN THE SAME while I fight the most obvious losing battle in the history of the world.

Whether it's denial or courage, you can be the judge.

And despite my best attempts, my pockets are still only half full.