It would be ridiculously easy to grow up, to move on. I thought I did. It became clear when I still think my high school friends are the same ones I had 17 years ago when in fact they weren’t anymore. They are all in a different phase, different chapter.

Definitely different page.

My mom bought me a bracelet from our local market about a year ago. It was not expensive and after several months, the gold color became bronze. She saw the hideous mark it left on my wrist and insisted that I should throw it away. She’ll just buy another one. She said the same thing about my necklace. Not to throw it away, mind you but to trade it in with something she called ‘real’ gold.

It should be a simple act. Taking it off and putting it away. Silly kindergarten stuff, but I can’t do it.

I hold on to it. That’s what I do. I refused to budge from this very page. I’m still like a rock. A stupid, humongous rock.

And there lies all my problems.

But you must see, at least…that this bracelet’s sound is my only refuge when the dark thoughts dulled my mind saying that maybe I should not move again. Maybe I should just say goodbye. Why live when you cannot find your worth anymore? It was a long trench when my ears searched for the familiar ring. The little chimes made me resurface and I know that I have to keep moving.

Still, but moving.

The necklace was a different story. It’s a nervous tick, really, the one my hands would look for when I’m nervous. It could be any other necklace of any material but I bought this for myself and it’s the only material possession that can truly stay close to me, feel me breathe and granted as a stiff alibi of all my doings. There are no secrets between us.

I used to ignore this tiny little stuff that women wear. I have no reason to hold on to one. I had friends. They talk to me and I listen. We go out and had fun. We were on the very same page. We even had the same dreams until Change bluntly cut the chord.

Now I have my oxidized bracelet and locket-less necklace to accompany me. We don’t talk but we acknowledge each other. We touched and some chimed and we’re o.k with that.

It’s not that I didn’t try. My old friends seemed to leap a 100 light years before me. They said different things now, talk to different people, even dream such weird grown up bureaucratic dreams. I would tell things to them but they weren’t listening because it’s not important. I called, I wrote, I talked and I even went to see them, try to understand them, what it’s like to be like them but I only got to the surface and we disconnected. It might be the distance, the insufficient time, the stress of the job, the taking care of the husband, the children, the house, the chores, etc.

Maybe they never intended to stay after all. Maybe it really was me.

It scares me that one day I would look into another pair of eyes and failed to recognize the tattered soul reaching out for help while I’m too busy sorting out my priorities.

I guess being still is not so bad. I value my company.

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