The Things I Can’t Let Go Of

I’ve always been that person the one who saves everything.

Old screenshots, random voice notes, first messages, tiny details no one else even remembers. Not because I’m dramatic. Not because I live in the past. But because I believe moments deserve a place to stay. Memories feel safer when they exist somewhere outside the mind.

And maybe that’s why what happened recently affected me more than it should have.

A few days ago, one of my WhatsApp chats disappeared. Just like that. No warning, no goodbye. One second it was there, the next it wasn’t. I still don’t know how it happened maybe I deleted it by mistake, maybe it was some glitch. But the reason didn’t matter. All I knew was: it was gone.

It was just a chat.

At least, that’s what everyone else would say.

When I told that friend about it, they said casually, “It’s okay, it was just a chat.” And logically, they weren’t wrong. There wasn’t anything extraordinary in it. No dramatic confessions. No life-changing conversations.

But what they didn’t realize was it held our beginning.

It had our first “hi.”

Our first awkward replies.

The first time we didn’t know what to say but still didn’t want the conversation to end.

That chat was proof that once upon a time, we were strangers.

And I don’t know why, but beginnings matter to me. A lot.

Maybe it’s because beginnings are honest. There’s no pretence yet. No expectations. Just curiosity and unfamiliarity slowly turning into comfort. Losing that chat felt like someone had quietly erased the first page of a story I was still living.

I panicked more than I expected. Not loudly, not dramatically just that silent kind of panic where your chest feels tight and you keep refreshing the screen hoping something magically reappears.

And that’s when I realized something about myself:

I’m not afraid of losing people.

I’m afraid of losing the proof that they were once there.

So I did what any memory-keeper would do. I went searching in backups like someone digging through old boxes in an attic. I restored an older WhatsApp backup one from before the 10th.

And yes… I got the chat back.

Because for me, memories aren’t clutter.

They’re evidence that I lived.

I hold on to everything. Almost everything.

And sometimes… I get angry at myself for it.

Sometimes I wish I were one of those people who can delete things easily chats, photos, feelings, chapters. People who can say “It’s okay, it didn’t matter that much” and actually mean it. Life would probably feel lighter that way. Less crowded. Less heavy with invisible weight.

But I’m not built like that.

I replay moments. I reread conversations. I revisit beginnings like they’re places I can still walk through. And yes, sometimes it exhausts me carrying so many yesterdays inside one today. Sometimes I wonder if holding on this tightly is a flaw disguised as sensitivity.

Yet every time I try to change, something inside me whispers: If you stop caring this deeply, you’ll stop feeling this deeply too.

And maybe that’s the truth I’m slowly learning to accept that the same habit which makes me emotional is also what makes me alive to moments. The same heart that refuses to let go is the one that notices things others miss.

So maybe I don’t need to fix this part of me.

Maybe I just need to understand it.

Because being someone who saves memories isn’t a weakness. It’s a way of loving life… twice.

Once when it happens. And once when you remember it.

That day taught me something strange and beautiful memories are not afraid of being deleted. Only we are.

Because the truth is, nothing meaningful is ever really lost. If a moment mattered enough, it leaves a mark somewhere deeper than any chat history.

So now I still save things, yes. I still keep screenshots, notes, little fragments of time. But I’m slowly learning not to panic when something disappears.

Because what’s meant to stay… doesn’t need a backup.