My Diary's stories

 I don’t build with bricks. I build with moments. With photo frames that are a little bent, and colours that don’t match, but feel like me. From every place I go, I bring back a piece— a chipped mug, a scarf with stories, a shell that reminds me I once stood by the sea. These things are more than decoration— they're memory stitched into matter. My house is my diary. My room, a secret poem. It’s not perfect. It’s not tidy. But it’s mine. It holds me when the world doesn’t.