inked memories

when people ask me what i want for my birthday, i always say the same thing:

money.

just give me the money. don’t stress yourself trying to guess what i like i’ll decide what to do with it. simple.

but there’s something i don’t usually say.

i love handwritten cards.

not just “oh this is nice” love i mean the kind of love where i’ll sit down and read it again… and again… and still smile like it’s the first time. the kind i keep. always.

last month was my birthday, and a few days before it, i stumbled on some old cards and random notes i’d kept. i don’t even remember when i packed them away. but opening them felt like opening tiny pieces of my past.

the glitter pens.

the messy handwriting.

the dramatic names ktmh, loml, sugar pie, honey plum 😭… iykyk.

they were so cute, so unserious, so us.

what surprised me the most wasn’t just that i still had them it was who they were from.

some of those people, i don’t talk to anymore.

some, i don’t even have their numbers.

some… life just happened.

but i still kept the cards.

because somehow, even when people leave or things change, the words they wrote don’t. they stay exactly as they were in that moment honest, intentional, and full of whatever we meant to each other at the time.

money is useful. i’ll always ask for it.

but handwritten cards? they’re different.

they don’t expire.

they don’t get outdated.

they don’t lose meaning.

if anything, they grow into it.

and maybe that’s why i love them so much

because long after everything else has changed, i can go back, read a few words on paper, and remember exactly how it felt to be loved like that.

and that kind of thing…

you don’t throw away. ❤️