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by Katrina Manacio


The TV is yours. You offered it to me for free on our first date, the dinner where I ranted about my ex for way too long and you were kind enough to listen. I couldn’t possibly take a TV from you, I didn’t know you. But you said that it was collecting dust in your room, so I agreed. My bed frame is yours, too. You helped me build it in my new apartment, and I let you explain what all the screws and washers did. I learned what your focusing face looked like, and the way
you scrunch your eyebrows when you think.


The corner of my windowsill is yours. The spot closest to my bed, crowded with all the trinkets I’ve gotten from you. Tiny ceramic animals, a leather rose, a glow stick bracelet, an arcade coupon we never got to use.

The shampoo in my shower is yours. You brought your own, from all the times you’ve come over straight from work, wanting to freshen up before we went out. Sometimes I use it when I want to smell like you.

The color in my hair is yours. You offered to help me dye it after I complained about my blonde streaks. I still remember the feeling of your fingers running through my hair, gently spreading the dye as we watched our favorite show. Despite the gloves, your fingers still turned purple.

My favorite song is yours. Sparks Fly by Taylor Swift. I told you that this song reminded me of you. We listened to it in bed, looking into each other’s eyes and giggling at how cheesy it was.


You kissed me, and I knew I was ruined.

The Costco receipt is yours. It hangs up on my wall along with other memories. We were on the way to dinner when I offhandedly said I wanted to try the Costco cookie. You suddenly pulled off the freeway and brought me there first. I laughed at how determined you were to get me one.

It was so warm and gooey and sweet. That night, you asked me to be your girlfriend.

The straw paper rings I made at all our dinner dates. The old tee shirt you said looked better on me. The couch you helped me move in. The boxers you let me borrow. The stuffed animals you gave me for Christmas. The pictures of us in my camera roll. The tiny pineapple erasers you hid around my apartment for me to find. Before I knew it, my life had become a museum of you.

So tell me, what am I supposed to do with all the love you left behind?

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