14 May 2025, @mariannewest's Freewrite Writing Prompt Day 2736 :simplicity

"I got rid of everything yesterday."

Mom looked up from her coffee, the steam fogging her reading glasses. "You did what now?"

I stood in her kitchen doorway, feeling weirdly light. Three trash bags sat in my car, filled with donations. My apartment had half the stuff it did two days ago.

"Just.. everything. Well, not everything-everything, but a lot." I grabbed a mug from the cabinet, filled it with coffee. "Been reading about this guy online who says we only need like 30 personal items total."

"Thirty?" She pushed her glasses up. "That's ridiculous, Niko."

"Maybe." I shrugged, leaning against the counter. "But my place feels huge now. I can actually breathe."

I didn't tell her about the panic attack last week. About how I'd stood in my apartment surrounded by Amazon boxes and IKEA furniture I'd never assembled and clothes with tags still on them. How I couldn't breathe looking at all the stuff I'd bought to fill some hole inside me.

"But your record collection?" Mom knew me too well. "You've been collecting since you were fifteen."

"Kept twenty albums. The ones I actually listen to." I sipped the coffee. It was too hot, burned my tongue a little. "Got rid of the ones I was just... keeping."

"This about Izzy?" Mom never pulled punches.

"No." But we both knew that was bullshit. Izzy had called me a hoarder when she left two months ago. Said my apartment felt like drowning in someone else's crap.

Mom just waited, stirring her coffee.

"Fine. Maybe a little," I admitted. "But not in the way you think. It's not—I'm not trying to get her back or whatever."

"Mmhm."

"I'm serious. After she left, I just started looking around and realized I didn't even like half the stuff I owned. Just kept buying more things hoping it would make me feel... I dunno... something."

Outside, Mrs. Patel was walking her corgi. The little dog stopped to pee on Mom's mailbox like it did every Wednesday morning.

"Well," Mom finally said, "your grandpa always said possessions were just anchors."

"Yeah, but Grandpa owned like, one pair of pants and died with a million dollars in the bank." I laughed. "I'm not going that extreme."

"Good. Because I'm not giving you my clothes when yours wear out." She smiled over her mug. "You coming for dinner Sunday?"

"Yeah. Need me to bring anything?"

"Just yourself." Mom reached across the table, squeezed my hand. "That's all I've ever needed from you anyway."

I felt something warm in my chest that had nothing to do with the coffee.

Later, driving home, I thought about the empty spaces in my apartment waiting for me. They felt like room to breathe. Room to figure out what I actually wanted, not what I thought would fix me.

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