soft pinks. faded blues. creams that look different depending on the light. ribbons hanging from hangers. cardigans draped over dresses. pieces collected slowly over time, because she loved them, not because she needed them.

nothing is identical, but somehow everything belongs together.

that's her favourite part.

the skirt still works with the sweater she bought three summers ago. the socks match the ribbon in her hair. the active set she wore to pilates in the morning still makes sense at a café in the afternoon.

things don't have to match perfectly. they just have to get along.

because her mother told her something once, years ago.

you can't control how you feel. but you can control what you wear. so dress well.

she never forgot it.

she gets dressed every morning on purpose, for nobody. because you only get today once.

and on the mornings she wakes up a little sad, she doesn't have to search for herself. she's already there, hanging in her closet.

a thin notebook for poems she'll never publish. they're small, three lines, four. sometimes less. she writes them on the train, on receipts, on the backs of postcards.

a lipgloss that's basically jewelry.
a hair ribbon, the color of her socks today.
her plové mat in a yoga strap.
sunglasses, even on the cloudy days.
a pressed flower from a saturday she doesn't talk about.

and once, for a whole week last spring, she carried a tiny photograph of a ladybug she'd taken outside the café. she'd liked the way the sun had lit its shell. she didn't know who to show. she carried it anyway.