Bhoomi's diary

And I confess something here: I hate wearing the clothes that I love because I’m scared that I’ll ruin or damage them, so I keep them for special occasions.
Honestly, I love my clothes, for each one of them holds stories and memories woven into each thread—the memories of the time I bought them, the tears and laughter they hold, every single experience I’ve had in them. 
This reminds me of my dearest yellow shirt. It’s a simple pastel yellow shirt I thrifted, and it is so soft and cool. I absolutely adore it. It ended up in the thrift store because one of its buttons was missing. Despite having a mother who sows, I never fixed the button issue because I wore the shirt open and accepted its flaw.
Whenever I look at my thrifted clothes, I wish I could tell them—I know you were discarded or left in one corner of the world, and somehow you ended up here instead, and I found you—in a pile full of clothes, and I chose you. I saw your beauty and your potential, and I’m glad you ended up here with me instead. Call it fate or just a coincidence, but something brought us together, and I’m grateful for it.
I know I sound crazy right now because who thinks so deeply about their clothes? But they’re not just clothes after all; they’re “my clothes.”
and maybe it’s in my nature to love everything I call mine deeply, be it people or clothes.