Echoes of Yesterday

Part 1 - Love Token

Hey, Artsy Diary,

I'm back after a while. Life's been chaotic, but that's no excuse. You've always been a place of solace for me, like an old friend waiting patiently for me to return.

The scent of these pages brings back memories—does it for you, too? It reminds me of the time I first held his letter.

It was the scent that lingered the longest, a mix of vanilla and something sweeter. The envelope was creased from its journey, but inside, his words danced across the paper. And what did I ask for? Just something small, a gesture. But he sent a song. A whole song. I don't think I could have asked for more.

It wasn't just the song, though. No, it was the photograph he sent along with it. Those eyes, they captured everything, didn't they? But the lips—how do I even begin to describe them? Am I being too forward? Probably. But when you've known someone for so long, it's hard to hold back. His smile, that same smile that made everything feel lighter, still brightens my memories of him. Even though life has taken us down separate roads, I'm genuinely happy for him. He deserves all the happiness in the world.

I can still remember the melody of the song. It echoed in my mind long after I read the note. I sang it out loud once, hoping that, somewhere, he was singing it too. His voice would have made it a lullaby, a song that could calm even the most restless of hearts.

"Teardrops fall on the notes while writing."

Not because we weren't meant to be together, but because I lacked the strength to fight for what we had. Now, with miles between us—emotional, and geographical—it feels like a gulf that I'll never be able to cross.

I clicked my pen and let my thoughts drift.

People are sweet until they stop expressing themselves. Isn't it odd? We, as humans, are given this unique ability to communicate, yet, more often than not, we let that gift fall by the wayside. I see it all the time in the world around me. Even animals have a way of sharing their emotions, though they can't use words like we do.

Just then, the window shutter rattled. Startled, I stood up and moved to close it. I was about to latch it shut when I saw two birds, chirping together on a branch nearby. They seemed so carefree, so lost in their own world, and I couldn't bring myself to close the window just yet. As I turned back to my room, my eyes caught sight of a house across the street. It was wrapped in a garland of fresh flowers, each one cascading down from the roof like they were placed by a loving hand. It looked like something out of a storybook.

"Daisy! Daisy!"

My mom's voice rang out from downstairs, snapping me from my reverie. I quickly made my way down, only to stub my toe on the last step. "AH... AMMA!" I yelped, clutching my foot. My dad rushed over, concern etched on his face.

"What happened? Are you okay?"

I winced. "Just a bad stair," I muttered, forcing a smile through the pain. "Mom, why did you call me?"

"Oh, I just wanted to show you a lily that bloomed in the garden."

"Seriously, Mom? You called me down for that?" I grumbled, rubbing my foot.

"I was excited, Daisy," she said with a sheepish smile.

Dad laughed. "Your mom could make anything sound like breaking news. So dramatic."

Mom shot him a look that could've cut through stone. It was her silent way of saying, "You'll be cooking dinner tonight". I smirked, limping back upstairs. I sank into my rocking chair and plugged in my earphones, needing a moment to myself.

In seventh grade, I had a sleek pen box where dreams met paper. By eighth grade, I carried a keychain with my name engraved on a single grain of rice—my tiny symbol of hope and rising dreams. Ninth grade brought a bracelet, glittering brightly, spelling out "Happy Friendship Day." By tenth grade, a glass teddy bear sat on my shelf, reflecting the innocent love we shared. And in eleventh grade, I wore a watch, its steady ticking a reminder that time, like our dreams, was always in motion.

Those were the gifts that marked our journey, tokens of the words we shared, the sleepless nights, the promises, and, eventually, the distance that we couldn't cross. How does it feel to stand at a crossroads, knowing that the light you once followed now illuminates a path you can no longer walk?

The thought makes me shudder, but there's no turning back now.

I got up from my chair and approached the mirror on the wall. It's not just any mirror—it's magical. The frame is intricately carved with elephants and flowers, like a portal into a forgotten world. I looked at my reflection, tired from the weight of the evening, the twilight shadows clinging to my skin. My face was a poem waiting for the right poet to discover it.

But there's no Flynn Rider here to brush away the stray strand of hair that falls across my face—no handwritten letters with the scent of roses. The only bouquets I've received are digital, fleeting, and unreal.