Chapter Text
I was never the kind of person to throw anything away—keepsakes, letters, random things that have since lost their meaning to time—and I’m painfully aware of that fact right now. Multiple cardboard boxes and plastic storage containers of different sizes and colours litter the bedroom floor of my flat, some with paler markings left behind where tape was once stripped from the surface of the cardboard, taking some of the brown paper alongside it, while others remain firmly sealed. I’m sat in the middle of the mess of haphazardly placed items that I’ve started to pile together to pack up. I don’t remember it being this hard as a teenager, but that’s likely because Mum took charge of most of the packing back then.
I’m abruptly snapped out of whatever train of thought I was caught up in by the quiet, rhythmic buzzing coming from atop the duvet. I twist around to grab it, briefly checking the caller ID before picking it up with a light smile.
“Hey, Mum,” I say quietly, turning back around to face the mess in front of me.
“Hey, Nicky. How are you? Have you started packing for Menorca yet?” Her voice flows through the speaker pressed to my ear.
I let out a small chuckle in response. “Yeah, I’m actually in the middle of it. I’m doing well, though, thank you. How have you been? I’m sorry I haven’t had the chance to visit again since your birthday.”
“Oh, sweetheart, don’t worry about that! I know you’ve been busy recently with work and coaching. I’m glad that you were able to come down for my birthday at all.”
“Yeah, that’s fair. There’s been a lot to sort out with getting the team ready for the new school year. I can’t believe the summer’s nearly over already.”
She hums quietly in thought. “It feels like we were just planning this trip a few weeks ago, yet here we are.”
We keep talking for a little while about the trip to Spain, and I eventually realize that I really need to start multitasking if I’m ever actually going to finish packing. I put away the box of old primary school projects I found that drew my attention. A bunch of art projects and essays from my childhood, left to sit in a stuffy box for over a decade. At least they weren’t thrown out.
“Yeah, my flight takes off from LGW at ten-thirty, so I should land in Menorca around one,” I say absently as I fold a few pairs of clothes from my dresser, laying them neatly into my suitcase until a box on the floor catches my eye.
I pause, suddenly stuck in my own head as the voice coming through the phone fades into the background, like the hum of a box fan. I can’t remember what’s in the box, and the label on the front doesn’t offer much of an answer, either.
‘Misc. Nick’s room’
My handwriting is sprawled out in the center of the cardboard front in black Sharpie, though I can hardly remember writing it now. I don’t even remember which move this box is from, whether it was moving into my dorm at Leeds for uni or moving into my flat after graduation. It’s still sealed in clear parcel tape, having been left untouched for at least a year, possibly longer.
I hesitantly pull it towards me, a little nervous as to what might be inside. And maybe that was actually a well-founded feeling. I peel the tape off, an audible ripping sound echoing through my room as my Mum asks me if I’m still here.
“Yeah, I am. I just found a box that I haven’t opened yet…” I say quietly, rolling the tape up into a little ball and throwing it across the room, where it lands in the trash can beside my desk. I carefully fold back the flaps of the box, revealing fabric beneath them.
There are a bunch of things shoved in this box, from old room decor and random things that I can’t remember ever owning to some Post-it notes that I forgot to throw out and a bunch of old clothes that I can actually see from here. Some of the Post-its were dated from the summer after I finished year 13. This box must have been from when I packed before Leeds, then.
I pull out an old, slightly worn jumper from the box, about a size or two too small for me now. The fabric is somewhat soft beneath my fingers, and I just can’t shake the feeling that, despite hardly remembering ever owning it, it once had importance. I set it off to the side, my gaze lingering on the dark blue pile of fabric a moment too long, before reaching for yet another jumper, and the slightly weathered fabric of this one is a bit coarser to the touch. My breath audibly catches as it clicks for my body before it clicks for my brain. I pull out another few jumpers, setting them aside with the rest in a pile of coloured fabric—a good-sized puddle of colours, varying shades of greens to blues—before looking back down into the box; now my attention is stuck on the green item inside. Now I understand what that feeling was.
I pull out the book with shaky hands, feeling the cold, smooth cover and textured spine beneath my fingertips. On the cover is a pastel yellow piece of paper—maybe cardstock?—glued onto a slightly larger piece of pastel blue. That little label is fixed to the smooth surface beneath it, likely with glue or tape. The word ‘memories’ is written in pencil on the label, and there are little drawn stars and leaves cut out in varying colors of paper glued onto the entire front cover.
I recognize the handwriting immediately. Of course I do. Even after five entire years, there are some things that I could simply never forget. His handwriting and the scrapbook are two of them.
“Nick?” My Mum’s voice echoes through the room, and I let out a breath I hadn’t noticed I was holding.
“Yeah?” I ask, my voice slightly gruffer than it should be as I try to regain my composure, somehow pulling myself back together.
“What did you find?” she asks softly, noticing that something’s off. She’s always been very observant. I’d even say that she knew what I was feeling before I even knew I felt it growing up, about half of the time.
“An old book,” I say apprehensively, running my thumb along the edge of the cover, nervous but still tempted to open it.
“…What sort of book is it?” she asks, suspicion lacing her tone. She’s smart enough to know that a random book wouldn’t be enough to change my behaviour like this. There has to be something more to it. And she’s right.
I take a deep breath before I speak, exhaling before I even attempt to form a rational thought. “Um... A scrapbook.”
I hear what sounds like a sharp inhale, followed by momentary static on the line. Suddenly, a knowing hum follows before she speaks. “…Oh. I see.”
A loaded silence settles between us. “…Should I open it?” I ask, my voice barely above a whisper.
"...Do you think that would be a good idea, hun?" she asks softly, not trying to dissuade me, just genuinely asking what I think is best.
“I don’t know.” I whisper, more to myself than to her, before I clear my throat and start to speak normally, “But there’s only one way to find out...”
I already knew what would be on that first page. The day it was gifted to me was a memory that will forever be ingrained in my brain, regardless of how hard I tried to scrub it out. It’s a printed picture of Charlie and me on the beach during that one ‘Paris Squad’ outing the day before I left for Menorca… Ironic, isn’t it? We’re both smiling at each other, and my hands are around his face while his are around my torso. There’s a caption underneath it, written in black pen.
you gave me a photo of us in
the snow, so here’s one of us
in the sun
Love Charlie xxx
It’s taped into the book with a mixture of Sellotape and Washi tape at the corners, one for practicality and longevity while the other is for the scrapbook decorative aesthetic. There are little cutouts of cartoon flowers placed about, too.
I can’t help but wonder if he still has the photograph of Nellie, him, and me from that one day in the snow before we started dating that I gifted him for his 15th birthday somewhere, but I bury that thought before it could fully come to the forefront of my mind.
A small, nostalgic smile tugs at the corners of my lips as I flip the page. I knew that Charlie had only made the scrapbook and the first page, so the rest of the filled-in pages would have been made by me, but I don’t quite remember every spread I made, so I’m intrigued by what I might find. The next page is a photo of the two of us from our first date at the beach, our faces pressed tightly into the small holes in the wooden cutouts, making silly faces at the camera. Beside it is a strip of fairground tickets that are creased and peeling at the edges with age, carefully taped into the book at an angle. The page beside it has multiple pictures of Charlie playing with Nellie, one of which I remember being my phone wallpaper at some point. They’re from different days, probably months to a year apart.
I can’t help the laugh that escapes from my throat and the smile that paints my face upon seeing these. I feel my eyes sting slightly but don’t pay it much mind, instead continuing to flip through. I pass through multiple pages of photos, movie tickets, handmade birthday or holiday cards, and handwritten notes before I land on a spread I definitely recognize.
I remember staying up late working on this spread that was entirely based around the Truham/Higgs language student Paris trip, and being incredibly proud of it after the fact. It’s actually a proper scrapbooking page as opposed to some photos collaged together, with detailing like a restaurant menu, a stolen ‘Do Not Disturb’ hotel door hanger, a Paris postcard, and multiple photos. Obviously, there are many photos of just the two of us, but also a group photo of all of us, save for Imogen, Elle, and Sahar.
I pick up my phone from next to me, where my Mum has since gone silent, the soft crackle of the open line filling the silence as I navigate to my camera app and take a quick photo of the group shot, trying to avoid getting other elements in the frame. I’ll send that to the group chat in a bit.
I keep flipping through the book, the silence from Mum hanging over me like a warm hug, not at all stifling or awkward. Comfortable. I slowly start to feel a weight on my chest that I can’t put into words, but it isn’t necessarily all bad. My smile relaxes a bit, and I flip to the last page I filled out. I’d recognize the date at the top in an instant. I don’t even have to read what’s written; I already know. I spent ages replaying this day over and over again in my head… I’d be surprised if I ever managed to forget what date it was on.
I can’t even bring myself to read what I’d written because I’m sure it’d end with me in tears, and I really need to continue packing after this. If I’m honest, I’ve already unpacked the reasons behind it in therapy and learned to work through them, but I haven’t fully faced how hard it was to cope with the break-up.
I’m sure I know deep down why the sting in my eyes got stronger, the blood rushing in my ears got louder, and my breathing got shakier, but I really don’t want to admit it to myself. I quickly close the book, perhaps a little bit too forcefully, before immediately going to put it back in the box.
But I hesitate, and a small photo falls out from between the final page and back cover. I pick it back up from the floorboards and let out a rather wet-sounding chuckle and a wide smile as I see the photobooth strip I kept from our first date at the beach. Of course I kept the half of it with us kissing, because I planned to tell my Mum about us that night and Charlie hadn’t yet told his parents. At least with the slightly less ‘coupley’ photos, he could play the ‘close friends’ card with only mild suspicion. I feel a pang in my chest at seeing them, though. We looked so young and happy… I take a centering breath and place the photo strip back inside the scrapbook loosely, sandwiching it between the front cover and first page this time, before closing the book.
Do I really want to put it away? Do I really want to leave it out of sight? These are nostalgic memories from a really great part of my life. Do I really want to hide them?
I stand up, using the corner of my bed for support, and walk over to the bookshelf beside my desk. I carefully slot the book into the final slot. I try to ignore the pang I feel in my heart when I think about how the scrapbook was only a quarter of the way full, the rest of the pages blank. A testament to what could have been.
“…Nick? Are you alright?” Mum's voice finally rings out, pulling me from my thoughts, and I suddenly realize that I’ve been standing here, staring at the scrapbook—now residing in its new place on my bookshelf—for the past ten seconds.
I take a deep breath in and turn back towards where I left my phone, clearing my throat as I quickly rub my eyes. “Yeah, Mum. Just… got nostalgic, I guess.” I chuckle awkwardly to myself, picking my phone up.
“I should probably stop getting distracted and actually finish packing, huh?” I ask after a moment, finally feeling like I’ve pulled myself out of my own head and letting out a bit of a laugh.
“Yeah. You should probably get it done before you have to work tomorrow,” she says softly, but there’s clearly something beneath her tone that I can’t quite place.
I let out a hum in agreement and start to finish packing, but I can’t help but shoot a glance towards the bookshelf, a soft smile spreading on my face before I shake my head and get back to work.